


The Song of Sunset, the Third Age

by eldritcher



Series: The Song of Sunset Third Age [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 06:38:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 205,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4009663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eldritcher/pseuds/eldritcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elrond loves.</p><p>Galadriel will not bow in to Manwe's wishes. Celebrian comes into her own. Celeborn is torn between his daughter's welfare and his duty to Galadriel.</p><p>Erestor and Thranduil continue their long-running tradition of competing over plum-pies. </p><p>Politics, drama, tragedy, martial problems and people too strong-willed to ever give up. </p><p>Elrond loves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Elrond watched with mild concern as Gildor rode into the courtyard. The horse collapsed exhaustedly, froth steaming at its mouth. Frowning, Elrond made his way to the animal hastily.

“Is anything amiss?” Glorfindel arrived to meet his former tent-mate.

“Where is Erestor?” Gildor asked angrily, not even bothering to acknowledge Elrond’s presence, “I must see him now.”

“He is in his study,” Glorfindel said quietly, “Shall I lead you there?”

“I know the way,” Gildor said curtly as he strode into the house leaving a bewildered Elrond staring at an equally stunned Glorfindel. 

Gildor remained closeted with Erestor for more than two hours. Elrond and Glorfindel had started to worry seriously. 

Then Melpomaen came and whispered to Glorfindel, who had been sitting with Elrond in the great Hall of Fire, “Lord Erestor calls you.”

“Where is Gildor?” Glorfindel asked the younger elf.

“He left immediately as he finished speaking to Lord Erestor,” Melpomaen said with a shrug, “I asked him to join us in the supper. He declined.”

“Elrond,” Glorfindel said quietly, “I will see what the matter is and then join you. Maybe it is something regarding my tryst with Gildor in Lothlórien.”

Elrond nodded mutely. A flare of foreboding rose in him suddenly. Quickly, he rose to his feet and followed Glorfindel.

 

“What is it, ‘Restor?” Glorfindel asked as he met his friend on the balcony.

“I love to watch the sunset,” Erestor said absently, his fingers clenched on his robes. “Elrond was the one who took me out to watch my first sunset in Lindon. Since then, I have always watched the sunset.”

“’Restor? Glorfindel moved closer to the other elf. “You are upset, what is Gildor’s news?”

Elrond approached softly, Erestor turned to face him wearily. 

“What is it?” Glorfindel asked again in a quieter tone.

“I cannot betray Gil anymore. I cannot betray Celebrían anymore,” Erestor said softly as he met Elrond’s gaze, “I made my choice long ago when I accepted Gil, Elrond. There can be nobody else in my life. You are yet to make your choice. Please accept your lady and leave me alone. I cannot break my vows and oaths. I cannot bring doom of Finwë upon you.”

“I don’t understand,” Glorfindel said bewildered as he tried to place an arm on Erestor’s shoulder, the younger elf flinched and moved away.

“What did Gildor say?” Elrond asked coldly as he faced Erestor, his insides were screaming at him to kill Gildor. 

“He didn’t say anything that should not have been said,” Erestor said staunchly though his dark eyes were filled with pain, “I don’t wish to hurt you, Elrond. I would die than hurting you. I will sail if you wish. But I will not be your lover. I cannot be. I will not bring the doom upon you.”

“If you had not been bound by your vows,” Elrond asked quietly, “Would you have acted differently? Would I have stood a chance then?”

“Elbereth knows that I wish that my vows were dissolved,” Erestor said in a shaking voice, “Forgive me, Elrond, I cannot do this. I will sail as soon as Círdan is ready.”

Glorfindel was about to speak, but Elrond placed a hand on his shoulder saying, “Listen to me, Erestor. Hear what I have to say, then make your choice.”

Erestor’s eyes met his dejectedly and the chief-counsellor nodded. Glorfindel moved away, his fair face marred by deep sorrow.

“All that I asked you that night in Lothlórien was that you live for yourself. That is all I ask now. I don’t care what you do, whom you seek, how we argue, just live for yourself,” Elrond said softly, “Your choices are yours alone, I cannot and will not make them. You vowed to make reparation for our family’s mistakes. If you sail, then you will break your oath. Stay for that at least. Stay for Gil whose duty burdens us now. Stay for Glorfindel, who cherishes you. For Thranduil who will need your support and strength. I must not say this. But I am selfish, Erestor, I lie if I say that I don’t want you with me here. If you stay, I live.”

“Don’t speak thus, Elrond,” Erestor begged, “Please! This is tearing me apart. I cannot leave until Gil’s duty is completed. Until the ring is destroyed. I will stay. But you will hate me as we see each other daily. I can never be what you want me to be.”

“I can never hate you, Erestor,” Elrond smiled bitterly, “For me, there will be only you.”

Erestor’s eyes widened in horror and Elrond continued hastily, “I will never bring the Doom of Finwë upon us. You are right; we cannot be true lovers without bringing the curse of the Valar upon us. And I love you too much to ever demand comfort-seeking at your hands.”

“I am sorry,” Erestor said helplessly, “I wish I did not cause you so much grief.”

“Oropher once told me that he hoped even when the wrath of Ingwë was upon him. He hoped till the last moment of his life that he would one day reunite with his one true love, Vanima. He must have known of my love, for he said that one day, I would understand him better. I do, now. I will happily watch you live before me without tainting your peace with my feelings,” Elrond embraced his love tightly.

His words bound him to an existence that would never see his love acknowledged, his bond returned. Erestor and he could continue with their physical relationship if they wished. But Elrond knew that it would never soothe his grief and helplessness. Elrond would only be quenched by a complete union of mind, body and soul. He had loved too much to settle for anything less.

Erestor took a deep breath and moved away from the embrace. Their eyes met and he bowed before hurrying away through the corridors. Elrond turned back to watch the magnificent sunset alone. His lips quirked in a bitter smile as the reddish golden sun slowly disappeared below the horizon. It seemed so prophetic.

 

 

Thranduil watched his father’s portrait being hung on the large walls of the main hall. The noble figure of the elf he had cherished above everyone else had been perfectly depicted. Thranduil could almost imagine Oropher was standing before him with that wise, tender smile reserved only for his spoilt son. But his father was in Mandos and he was on Middle-Earth trying to hold together a falling realm. It would do nobody good for him to fall apart, and he certainly did not intend to. Smiling his approval to the young elf who had hung it, he made his way to the royal chambers.

“I see no reason why I cannot dress him up in yellow robes,” a female voice rose in challenge as he made to enter the dining chamber. He paused walking and listened to the debate with a smile gracing his face.

“Because, my Queen,” an older male voice answered, “He is the King! A King does not wear yellow robes.”

“My father was a King and he wore yellow robes quite often, Thalion,” the queen’s voice was defiant.

“Your father was a fool who sent us legions of carrion during the fight for Eregion,” Thalion muttered.

Thranduil stepped in before they came to blows. He could not suppress a wry sigh as he took in the scene before him. 

On the table, the royal dining table, his queen was seated cross-legged. Her hair was gathered into an unruly bun and tendrils of disobedient hair obstructed her sight as she sliced an apple daintily before popping it into her mouth. Her plain grey gown had been gathered into her lap allowing her freedom. Thranduil heaved a sigh of relief mingled with frustration as he saw that she had put on a pair of leggings underneath her gown. 

Thalion was clad in the grey robes of the healing halls, his head resting on his crossed hands and his feet propped up on the table. Both of them turned to greet Thranduil with a smile when he walked towards them.

“How was your day so far?” Anoriel offered him a slice of apple. 

Too tempted to even think of refusing, he slid his lips on her fingers as he accepted the offering and then proceeded to swirl his tongue playfully around her fingers. She smacked him with her other hand and withdrew her fingers.

“My day was tiring,” he shoved off Thalion’s feet from the table, “You two are enjoying a lot of creature comforts while your poor King is working himself to death.” 

“Just give up your kingship.” Thalion smirked. “Both of us are ready to take over.”

“The King of Greenwood dispossessed by a conspiracy by his Queen and Chief-Healer,” Thranduil sighed, “That I shall live to see that day makes me cringe!”

“Where is the little elfling you promised me this year?” Thalion peered obscenely at Anoriel’s flat stomach, “I see no sign of it.”

“Thranduil does not try too hard,” she shrugged even as Thranduil rolled his eyes. “I am seriously disappointed.”

“Say that again, and I might be compelled to defend my honour right here,” the King said with a playful growl.

“But, my Prince,” Thalion smirked, “Your Ada and Naneth created you at their first attempt. You two have been trying for years! Is there one room in the palace that you have not employed at least once to do this?”

“Your bedroom,” Thranduil muttered, “Continue taunting me and I might be interested in trying there too!”

The aides entered with the trays of lunch. Thranduil snatched a slice of roast meat and then lifted a squealing Anoriel onto his shoulders.

“Let her down!” Thalion said shocked, “Thranduil! You are the King!”

“You two need a lesson. I am going to engage in certain activities with my wife in your bedroom, My Healer!” Thranduil said sweetly

He nodded politely to his laughing aides and made his way out. He did not even flinch at the long line of curses that spouted from Thalion’s mouth and bravely endured his queen’s punches and kicks. There were some advantages of being the King, he thought amusedly.

 

Celebrían hummed softly as she watched her husband and Erestor work through a pile of documents, their soft voices soothing her. They were seated at the desk facing each other. She cleared her throat to get their attention. They looked up and smiled at her and Erestor rose graciously to pull a chair for her next to his own seat at their desk. As ever, she was surprised by their camaraderie with each other. While Glorfindel and Erestor were great friends, they did not have this smooth, working relationship. Elrond instinctively seemed to know Erestor’s wishes and vice-versa.

“Well, my lady,” Erestor spoke with one of his rare smiles, Celebrían wondered why he smiled so seldom these days, “Why do you come hither to bore yourself with these mundane tasks?”

“One would think that you hated my visits,” Celebrían teased him even as her husband placed a full cup of tea in her hands. 

“Of course not!” Elrond laughed as he leant back in his chair to watch her amusedly, “Erestor merely meant that nobody comes to our study voluntarily. We do the most mundane tasks, accounting, inventory, stocks… nothing interesting.”

“Then why do you do it?” she asked, “Delegate it, that is what Amroth does.”

“Yes,” Erestor said thoughtfully, “But if we delegate it, we will be idle. It is pleasing to present ourselves as the hardworking lords of Imladris, you see!”

Celebrían rolled her eyes even as her husband and Erestor exchanged looks of mirth, she said suddenly, “I was thinking that we might have our suppers in the hall of fire with everyone else. You two take your meals together always. I know. But it might help the commoners to see that their lords dine with them at least once a day.”

Elrond’s fair face was marred by a light scowl, but Erestor said good-humouredly, “Certainly, ‘Bría, it is a wonderful idea. We shall take our suppers together with everyone else in the hall. Glorfindel will be pleased. He says that we shut ourselves away. What do you think, Elrond?” 

“As you wish,” Elrond muttered before turning to his scroll again. Not for the first time, Celebrían wondered why her husband cherished his loneliness so much.

* * *

Elrond sighed as he walked in the large gardens. Fragrance of roses assailed his sense of smell. Both Lindir and Celebrían had made the garden their realm and arduously strove daily to tend to these rose bushes. While Elrond had nothing against rose gardens, he did not like the fact that all of Imladris’s lovers had made the said gardens their favourite place to tryst. It reminded him of things he preferred not to think of even if they were ever-present in the deepest corners of his soul. 

“Elrond,” Celebrían’s tentative voice interrupted his musings. 

Elrond faced her; there was an expression of hesitancy on her fair face. He knew that was his fault, he was the worst husband any lady could have. He did not accompany her anywhere. He did not hold her hand in public. He did not even have the courtesy to dance with her during occasions. 

“My lady,” Elrond smiled though he suspected that it was more of a grimace.

“You did not come for supper tonight,” she said quietly as she joined him in the aimless walk, they maintained a distance as always as had become their custom after Gildor’s abrupt departure ten years ago.

“Is there something you wish to speak of?” Elrond queried as he inspected a withering rose bloom.

“No,” she said softly, “I merely wanted to enquire if you had supped. As odd as it may sound, I am concerned.”

“I am honoured, My Lady, however,” Elrond said in a louder tone, “Please do not bother about my comings and goings. I am sometimes called for in the healing halls at meal times.”

“I would be happy if you called me by my name. You used to before Lord Gildor came all those years ago as if the wraiths were pursuing him,” Celebrían tried to meet his gaze, but his eyes were stubbornly on the rose, “What changed?”

“Celebrían,” Elrond said with a deep sigh, “I didn’t mean to offend you, of course. I am somewhat reclusive by nature.”

“Elrond!” her voice rose slightly, “You insult my intelligence. You are reclusive, but you have never avoided Glorfindel’s or my company. That changed after Gildor visited. Now you stick to your chambers and your study. And you are comfortable with only Erestor’s company.”

“I will eat, my dear lady,” Elrond smiled charmingly at her and offered her his hand, she looked as if she was about to refuse, but accepted his hand. They walked together in an uneasy silence until Elrond spoke again, “Shall I invite Haldir for the winter?”

“I do like his company,” Celebrían shrugged, “But he will be needed in Lothlórien. He is the most experienced of the marchwardens. Anyway I am not interested in continuing our affair right now. Maybe, when I visit home.”

“Of course,” Elrond said with forced lightness, “I merely wanted to see you happy. I know that I don’t make you happy here. And I do hate myself for that, ‘Bría.”

“I don’t love you,” Celebrían said quietly, “But I care for you. As I am sure you do for me. Perhaps…”

“Yes?” Elrond asked gently rubbing her palms, a gesture he had learnt from Maglor.

“Perhaps if we were to have children, this sadness might alleviate,” she said in a sudden burst of words.

“You jest surely,” Elrond laughed, “I thought you hated to breed with me.”

“No,” Celebrían said quietly, “I would like children, Elrond. To watch them laugh, to watch them bicker, fight, learn and grow. Elrond,” she faced him, “This is all I shall ever ask of you as a husband. Give me at least one child to call my own. I will never interfere in any other matter of yours. One child, that is all I ask.”

“Celebrían,” his face turned pale in the dim starlight that she feared he would faint, “Celebrían, you do not know how your words tear me apart. I love children. In my own way, I love you. If I did not love another, I would have learned to cherish you the way you ought to be cherished. Please understand me; I cannot touch you when my heart and soul yearns for another. It would not be your body that I see in my passion. And that would the greatest sin I could do by you.”

“I do not mind whose name you call out, or whose body you see in passion,” she said with tear-filled eyes, her quivering lips the only indicator of how much it cost her to speak these words, “I will forget everything if you gave me a child. I will raise him or her myself. You need not even spare a moment of your time.”

“I would never do that!” Elrond said incredulously, his heart had been screaming as she spoke each word, he wished to kill Galadriel, for getting both of them in this trap, “I thought you knew me better. If I ever have children, I will cherish them. I cannot repeat my parents’ mistakes!”

“What is your answer?” she asked more composedly, her eyes fixed on the stars above them.

“I will die for you if you wish. To release you from this farcical marriage,” Elrond took her hand in his earnestly, “But what you ask me, I can never give.”

A single tear trailed down her fair cheek as she whispered, “It is cold, My Lord, I must retire.” 

She withdrew her hand and made her way swiftly through the bushes leaving him alone and distraught.

 

Elrond made his way back into the halls of his home. The corridors were deserted and dimly lit. Everyone had retired.

Elrond knew that he would not find rest this night, sighing he moved to the library. A merry fire burned in the large hearth. On one of the two armchairs by the fire sat his love of millennia, a book in one of his elegantly shaped hands and a goblet in the other. Across him sat Glorfindel, a goblet of ale raised to his lips. It was a ritual they had continued through the centuries of their friendship. It had started when Erestor had first joined Gil-Galad’s court and persisted through years of war and peace. As ever Erestor’s goblet was filled with his favoured Dorwinion and Glorfindel’s goblet with the strong Gondorian ale favoured by men.

“Elrond!” the Balrog Slayer greeted him companionably, “Come, join us!”

Erestor met Elrond’s gaze and nodded a silent greeting, the firelight flickering in his dark eyes. 

“And what are you doing in the library at this hour, my dear friends?” Elrond asked quietly as he stood before the fire though it was an irrelevant question. 

Glorfindel stood up suddenly and kissed Erestor’s brow muttering, “I think I will retire. I can trust you to keep Elrond company, I hope?”

“Certainly,” Erestor smiled softly at the balrog slayer and tucked a disobedient golden braid behind Glorfindel’s ear. Glorfindel nodded to Elrond and left, his loud footsteps receding in the corridors.

“Take a seat, Elrond,” Erestor motioned with his goblet, “What is bothering you?”

“Celebrían,” Elrond shrugged as he accepted the seat and cuddled into it, pulling his legs to his chest. 

Erestor raised an eyebrow as he poured a goblet of wine for Elrond and passed it saying, “What of her? I saw her during the evening in the gardens with Lindir. She seemed all right.”

“Our marriage, she wants children,” Elrond said bluntly. 

He saw a flash of pain and regret across Erestor’s features. But the face was quickly composed and the chief-counsellor replied steadily, “Well, it has been many years. Honestly, there is talk going around amongst the elves of Lothlórien and Imladris. I am glad that she has finally accepted you.”

“She does not mind the idea of breeding with me anymore,” Elrond said sarcastically, “But still, how does she expect me to even think of it?”

“She is a noble lady,” Erestor said quietly as he sipped his wine staring into the fire, “You should be honoured that she agrees.”

“I hate this marriage,” Elrond grit his teeth, “It is like an unending punishment. I wonder how she bears it?”

“Be sensible, Elrond,” Erestor said irritably, “The sole purpose of your marriage was an alliance of bloodlines. The line of Beren and Lúthien must continue! You need heirs.”

“The line of Beren and Lúthien continues in Elros’s descendants!” Elrond said harshly, “And in Anoriel! Let her make heirs with Thranduil, that will serve Galadriel’s purposes.”

“The Noldor blood!” Erestor reminded him, “Anoriel carries Beren’s and Lúthien’s blood, true. But she does not have a drop of Finwë’s blood. You have that. Celebrían has that. Which is why you must have heirs!”

“I hate these reasons,” Elrond buried his head in his hands.

“For our people,” Erestor said quietly as if each word cost him more than he would ever admit. Elrond raised his eyes to meet Erestor’s tortured gaze. So like Maedhros’s and Maglor’s. He shuddered. He would not let the curse of Fëanor take Erestor too, whatever he had to do.

“I am sorry that I am the cause of your reluctance to consummate your marriage,” Erestor said with renewed purpose, his gaze calm once again, “But it must be done. You must not let anyone stand before the unity of our people. You are a leader, the herald and the heir to our fallen king. You need heirs, that is part of your duties.”

“So I am to bury my feelings, my wishes, my desires and my hope to unite our people?” Elrond asked bitterly.

“Yes,” Erestor said calmly, “That is my advice as a chief-counsellor and a friend, Elrond.”

 

“No,” Anoriel said quietly as she joined Thranduil in bed.

“No?” Thranduil asked with a deep sigh.

“No,” she replied as she straddled him, “You must be doing something wrong.”

“Trust me, I am doing everything right. I am endowed with the experience of centuries, remember?” he smirked at her.

“Well, your experience has been of no use,” she rolled her eyes, “I was examined by Thalion. He said everything is fine with me. Must be something wrong with you.”

“Everything is all right with me,” he purred, “Or would you like to examine, my lady healer?”

“Yes,” she said in a deeper voice as she hungrily apprised his robe clad body, “You are over-dressed these days. Let me help you.”

“No,” he said as he moved away from her lithely, “You tear robes. And these are my favourite ones. I will remove them myself.”

She drew her legs to her chest as he stood before her with his head tilted mischievously to the side. She scowled, he was deliberately driving her mad with desire. His sparkling green eyes held promise of passion unbridled this night. She shuddered. How had she managed to live without his touch all those years?

“You scowl prettily, just like Elrond,” he said with a soft laugh, “I do find myself itching to find out if Melian the Maia scowled.”

“Will you remove those impediments or shall I rip them?” she asked dangerously.

“No, no,” he replied hastily as his hands worked on the clasps of his robes, “I think I must tie your hands. So destructive.”

“I thought you did not mind torn robes,” she shrugged, “Though the idea of tying my hands gives me several fantasies, I don’t think I should encourage you. You drive me mad with your slowness.”

“No, I don’t mind torn robes,” he agreed as he discarded his robes, “However I do worry about your teeth and nails. The dwarven delegation from Erebor were staring and smirking at me all through the conference last week. The marks of your teeth were rather visible on my neck. Let me tell you, it was very humiliating.”

“Well,” she laughed as he pouted, “I was told to keep my mouth shut by a certain ravisher, remember?”

“Yes,” he conceded removing his leggings and stretching languidly, “You scream like we are under attack by half – a – dozen wraiths. I did not want the entire palace to know what we were doing in the stables.”

“Get into bed, you arrogant princeling,” she growled as he watched his reflection in the mirror with great interest.

“I think I have grown a tad fairer,” he opined as he continued his inspection, “What is your view, my queen? The chambermaid of my study was blushing when she saw me early morning in my leggings.”

“I think that the view can be much improved if you face me,” she said dryly, “You are lucky that I am too lazy to come there and make you suffer for parading yourself before chambermaids.”

He laughed as he turned to face her. Watching her sapphire blue eyes filled with love, he felt a wave of gratitude for boons received. She was his life. He lived for her as once he had lived for his father. 

 

Amroth sighed as he walked along the stream that bore the name of his Sylvan love. He hated this feeling of helplessness, calling him away from his duties and realm to pursue a maid who cared neither for him nor for his love.

“Amroth?” Nimrodel’s fair voice called, Amroth felt a foreboding rise in his heart that this voice would be his doom one day.

“Yes, Nimrodel,” he said quietly as he joined her by the side of the stream. She was dressed in a plain blue gown and her brown hair was loose as it bounced on her shoulders. Her hazel eyes held his sapphire ones in thrall as she smiled at him.

“What are you thinking?” she asked in that accursedly melodious voice.

“Many things,” he replied as he stepped out of his shoes and indulged himself by soaking his bare feet in the cold water. She waited for him to elaborate. With a sigh, he began, “I was thinking of my father. Of the soldiers who followed him to death. Of the widows they have left behind. Of the children orphaned.”

“Tell me, Amroth,” she said with a soft smile, “All this happened because you rode for war. Because you could not be content to stay in these woods. Why do you ride for war when you can stay in peace?”

“We cannot hide from the world,” Amroth said firmly, “Evil lingers and we must fight against it alongside our allies. You will not understand.”

“No,” Nimrodel said defiantly, “I will never understand why you seek conflict when you can stay away.”

“I am a king, Nimrodel,” he said weakly, “I have a duty to my subjects. I must have heirs.”

“Why do you tell me this?” she asked coldly.

“Nimrodel,” Amroth placed his hand on her cheek, “I love you. That love made me abandon my kin in the war. I did not even light my own father’s funeral pyre. I did not give my sister a proper wedding. You did not visit me even once all those years I lay in limbo. I have forgiven you all. But now I must ask you, do you love me?”

She stared at him for one long moment before saying, “If you want my love, then you must give into my wishes.”

“And what may they be?” he asked quietly. Somehow he knew that she would never consent to be his queen, to rule his father’s realm alongside him. She would never give him heirs.

“You must abandon this unreasonable fighting. This power. If I love you, then I want you to myself. I will not share you with your subjects or kin,” she said steadily.

“I have a mother grieving for her king’s death. I have a sister whom I am bound to protect,” he said sadly, “I cannot leave them, Nimrodel, even if I give up my throne, I cannot give up my kin.”

“Your mother, as you told me, has never minded your doings. Your sister is married. Why should you be bound to protect her anymore?” Nimrodel answered, “I cannot say anything more. It is your decision, Amroth.” 

She turned from him and began lightly running on the grass, her fair voice raised in a sweet song. He clenched his hand to his heart as he walked to his city, his gait slow and slouched.

* * *

“A fine day,” Glorfindel said merrily as he joined the lady of Imladris at the Bruinen. 

She smiled back. She had come here to think of her fast degrading life. She had approached Elrond twice more with a plea for children. He had remained stubborn and adamant. It cost her pride more than she could admit to enter his study and talk of this matter over and over again. He would look upon her with guilt and pity; he would ask her if she wanted Haldir, he would ask forgiveness for his failings as a husband. But he had never agreed to her plea. 

“What deep thoughts make you so distracted, ‘Bría?” Glorfindel asked her concernedly, “I missed you at breakfast. Don’t tell me that you have decided to adopt your husband’s and Erestor’s habit of skipping meals. Those two are hopeless.”

“No!” she laughed though her heart was not much in it, “I was merely late to awake.”

“Sleeping in, are we?” he smirked, “Tiring activities yesterday night?”

“Of course not!” she huffed as Glorfindel gave an apologetic grin, “My husband is too busy with other things.”

“Elrond,” Glorfindel’s face betrayed an uncertainty that she had seldom seen, “He does not deserve you, I fear.”

“He is noble, wise, brave and all the rest of what a lord is supposed to be,” Celebrían shrugged, “He deserves anyone he cares to choose.”

“I did not mean it that way, ‘Bría,” Glorfindel said quietly, the mirth vanishing from his deep blue eyes.

“He loves another,” Celebrían shrugged, “Though I do not know who it is. And it cannot be a secret to you, Glorfindel. But I will not ask of that.”

He stared at her for a few long moments in stunned surprise before breathing, “You do not hate us all for abetting your misery in this marriage?”

“I do not’, she said quietly, “If anyone is to be blamed, it is my parents. They knew what they were doing. Elrond and I were helpless. As were the rest of you. However my mother wanted to ensure that the line of Finwë continues through this marriage.”

“Yes,” Glorfindel sighed, “This is a sacrifice of hearts for politics, I do not claim to understand your mother.”

“She is wise,” Celebrían said simply, “I suppose she had her reasons. But heirs are the primary purpose of this alliance and Elrond refuses to cooperate. I am tired of begging him for something that is in both our interests. The sooner we get the heir, the sooner we can separate.”

Glorfindel cringed at her bluntness and then asked softly, “Do you hate us all so much then? That you want to leave us as soon as you have your child? I, for one, have begun to cherish you as my own sister.”

“Well,” Celebrían laughed bitterly, “You can help me out by telling that stubborn peredhel hiding himself in the study to listen to sense.”

“I cannot make him listen to anything, no more than you can,” Glorfindel said gently as he placed a comforting arm around her waist, “I suggest you speak to Erestor. He will be able to help you. Elrond listens to him.”

“Erestor has been avoiding me ever after Gildor’s last visit,” Celebrían turned to face her friend, “What made things change so abruptly? What was Gildor’s news? Before that everything was as perfect as it could be.”

“Trust me,” Glorfindel said sincerely, “I don’t know what passed between Erestor and Gildor. I have never met Gildor after that. Erestor has never told me. But I think you will receive a fair ear from Erestor if you approach him directly.”

 

 

Celebrían took the Balrog Slayer’s advice and made her way to the library. Melpomaen said that Erestor was probably in his private study. Elrond was out riding the borders. So Erestor had retreated to his private chambers preferring to work there. 

Celebrían wondered if she should wait for another day, then she thought that it might be better to talk to Erestor in Elrond’s absence. Her husband spent the working hours with Erestor usually and she would be hard-pressed to get the chief-counsellor alone. Courageously, she knocked on the door that led into Erestor’s chambers. To her surprise the door swung open easily. She had expected it to be locked. She cleared her throat and entered. 

Erestor was seated at a magnificently carved desk set next to the window, the soft sunlight striking rich highlights into his unbound, waist-length hair carelessly slung over his back. One hand was pressed to his fine forehead and the other held a quill. Celebrían smiled at the almost sensual manner in which Erestor’s fingers held the quill. Then she noticed that Erestor was not clad in his usual ceremonial robes. Instead he wore a deep black dressing gown that parted to reveal his pale chest. Celebrían could not help a soft gasp. She had never known that Erestor hid so much beauty underneath his sombre robes. 

“My lady,” Erestor rose to greet her, a hand hastily pulling his robe together, she noticed that the single sash had not been tied. For a moment she glimpsed a taut abdomen and a navel before Erestor fastened the tie. Her gaze wandered lower to the tight black leggings that outlined perfect thighs and long legs.

“Celebrían?” he asked concernedly as she continued to stare at him, “Are you well?”

“Yes,” she advanced with a smile, “I merely wanted your esteemed counsel on a matter, My Lord.”

“Don’t lord me!” he rolled his eyes as he leant forward across the desk to pick up the scrolls in the chair before him, “I am messy, I do apologize.”

She helped pile the scrolls neatly on a side of the desk before taking a seat. 

He glanced down at himself uncertainly and murmured, “I will join you after I am attired more appropriately, I was not expecting visitors.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she said generously, “Do sit down, Erestor!” she added as he hesitated.

“Yes,” he smiled as he leant across the desk to pull a tray from the shelf next to her. She caught a strong waft of a scent of fresh earth, Erestor’s scent. His hair brushed her arm softly and she found that it was softer than her own. He placed the tray on the desk. It contained biscuits and a plum pie.

“I think I cannot reach the wine shelf unless I clamber over the desk,” he muttered as he began to push back his chair.

“Stay,” she said laughing at his impatience, “I will get it.” She walked to the shelf and noticed that it held a bottle of half-empty Dorwinion, a flagon of ale and a lighter-coloured wine.

“The Dorwinion for me,” he called, “And I suggest you don’t choose Glorfindel’s ale, only he can stomach it.”

“I will settle for the Dorwinion,” she said as she carried the bottle and two goblets from the adjacent shelf, “How do you manage to procure it? Thranduil does not send it even to my father.”

“He is generous occasionally,” Erestor smirked as he accepted a goblet, “There are times when he needs my counsel! And I exploit those occasions.”

She laughed and took a sip of the strong wine. Wincing, she hastily took a biscuit. Deep, black eyes watched her with amusement and concern.

“What is so funny?” she demanded as she bit on a corner of the large biscuit.

“I was merely watching your reaction,” he sipped the wine, “I find it amusing when others less attuned to this wine drink before me.”

“That is not charitable,” she remarked as she watched him distractedly pushing his hair out of his line of sight, “But tell me, whose reaction was the worst?”

He thought for a moment before replying, “Glorfindel can drink anyone under the table if it is ale or brandy or any other spirit. But he gets awfully confessional if it is Dorwinion. So he keeps away. Elrond also never touches this wine. Gil used to favour the lighter wine brewed in your realm. The only person whom I drink Dorwinion with is Thranduil. He can stay sensible even after an entire bottle.”

Celebrían pushed her goblet away determinedly. She certainly did not wish to get drunk before him.

“So what is it that you wanted my opinion on?” he interlaced his fingers as he leant back in his chair watching her fiddle with her gown, “I hope it is nothing regarding the rose bushes. I lack gardening skills.”

She laughed despite herself. She knew he had commented only to reduce her restlessness and make her more at ease. And somehow, she felt grateful for that.

“I will elaborate if you tell me why you and Elrond have been so reclusive since Gildor came,” she said quietly watching his features for any change.

“’Bría,” his voice was softer now, she had heard this tone many a time in council. Erestor used this tone when he wanted to evade a tricky question. He continued, “I am not reclusive. I do spend nearly half my day attending to the matters all over Imladris. I ride the borders often, I visit the stables daily, I check the menus of the kitchens. I even know how many new rose bushes you planted yesterday!”

“I did not mean that you had become lax in attending to the matters of this valley,” she said softly, “I meant that you no longer seek my company as you used to.”

“I assumed that you had other pursuits to keep you busy,” there was a faint teasing tone to his voice now, “Letters from a marchwarden burden the courier riders from Lothlórien everytime,” she blushed, “No, ‘Bría, I am not avoiding you. I would be honoured if you wish for my company or my services ever. My door is ever open.”

“I noticed that,” she laughed.

“Then let us get to the matter at hand,” he offered politely, his dark eyes holding her gaze.

“It is Elrond,” she began to narrate her story with many a halt and a tremulous pause. He listened intently, his features never betraying the slightest disapproval of her words. That gave her the courage to finish her tale. Exhaustedly, she leant back in her chair and closed her eyes.

After a few moments of silence, Erestor said quietly, “I will try to make Elrond understand the situation, ‘Bría,” he smiled at her hope-filled eyes, “I will do my best,” but there was a weariness in his eyes that made her suspect that this was not the first time he was aiding her cause.

“You have talked to him of this before,” she said simply.

“Yes,” he nodded pensively, “Many a time. He is most stubborn, I do not know what new argument may sway him.”

“None will,” she rose to her feet tiredly, “If you have tried already and failed, then I am afraid that there is no more hope that he will see sense.”

“I will speak to Thranduil,” Erestor said soothingly, “Please, ‘Bría, all Elrond needs is time.”

“No,” she said bitterly, “He will never stop loving whom he has loved for centuries unrequitedly. And I am tired of begging him to honour this alliance.” 

She made to leave. A strong hand gently clasped her fingers as Erestor said reassuringly, “I will help you, ‘Bría. Now, let us see you smile again. When you look like this, you resemble your mother. We do not want that, do we?”

She was unable to prevent the smile that broke on her features at his comment, she asked softly, “Will you come to the supper tonight?”

“If you wish so,” he bowed with false severity, making her laugh again, though her eyes lingered on the dark glimpses of his chest that she got when he stooped.

“I will just change into my robes and then join you,” he said pleasantly, “If you would wait a moment?”

 

 

She nodded and began wandering desultorily in the large chamber. It was as elegant, reassuring, confident and yet understated as Erestor himself. In dark shades of brown and cream, the chamber was tastefully decorated by rich curtains and rugs. A splendid wooden bookshelf lined one entire side of the room testifying to his love for books. On the other side was an array of weapons masterfully exhibited. Celebrían wondered if Elrond’s rooms were also this beautiful. She had never seen them.

Erestor reappeared clad in simple deep blue robes, his hair held back from his eyes by a clasp. He offered his arm to her. She wondered how both Erestor and Glorfindel were sticklers for courtesy to ladies. Elrond did not have a single bone of courtesy in his body. She knew it was unfair to think thus of him, he had been raised by Maglor in camps of war and not in a normal household.

“Profound musings?” Erestor enquired as he opened the door and let her exit the chambers first.

She shook her head and leant ever so slightly onto his arm hoping that he would not notice or comment. It had been nearly a decade since she had last known the comfort of a touch. She missed her father so.

They entered the large hall and Erestor gently navigated her to the head of the table. Glorfindel was already seated at the left of the central chair, his eyes travelled curiously over Erestor and Celebrían as he greeted them. Elrond arrived after Erestor had coaxed Celebrían to the seat across Glorfindel, which was usually occupied by the chief-counsellor in accordance to his rank.

Elrond’s eyes travelled over the chief-counsellor and then Celebrían before he remarked with a scowl, “Why, Erestor, you seem to have given up your position to her?”

Celebrían said softly, “I will take the next seat, Erestor, if it displeases him so.”

Erestor shook his head and made his way around the table to take the seat next to Glorfindel, who was watching Elrond warily. 

They began eating in silence until Erestor said casually, “We must prepare for your wedding anniversary, Elrond. I have already begun writing the invites.”

“Do something of the sort and I shall personally see to it that Imladris is flooded,” Elrond said darkly, “What is the meaning of this new alliance between you and her?”

“Elrond!” Glorfindel said with a wince as he darted Celebrían an apologetic look, “You are out of line!”

Elrond shrugged saying, “I was enquiring.” He shoved a plum pie towards Erestor, who nodded gratefully.

“As I was saying,” Erestor continued as if there had been no rude interruption, “We must celebrate your anniversary. But it is rather unseemly to not have heirs to present to our guests, is it not?”

“If you are asking me to breed with her, Erestor, then save your breath!” Elrond thundered as he rose from the table, making those in the hall watch him warily, “I will not aid this tomfoolery anymore! Galadriel can breed her heirs herself with her erring husband if she wants!” he pushed his way out of the hall angrily, his face truly terrifying to look upon.

Glorfindel looked at Celebrían who was looking rather near to breaking down in shame and fear. She did not know what had made her usually staid husband act so rudely in company. And the comment on her father’s renewed infidelities hurt her more than she could let anyone know.

“Let me escort you to your chambers,” Erestor offered her even as he exchanged a meaningful glance with Glorfindel.

 

Celebrían was unable to prevent the tears that flowed down her cheeks even as Erestor led her gently to her chambers. As they reached the door, she wiped her cheeks furiously and said, “Thank you.”

He nodded with a reassuring smile and said, “Should you ever need me, just send for me, ‘Bría. Elbereth watch over your dreams.”

 

After he had safely ensconced Celebrían in her chambers, Erestor took a deep breath and walked to Elrond’s door. He knocked firmly. A dishevelled looking Elrond opened the door and then on seeing his visitor scowled. Erestor sighed deeply and slid past Elrond into the room. 

“You cannot act so childishly before the people you rule, Elrond,” Erestor remarked mildly even as he began to arrange the mess on Elrond’s desk. 

“I know,” Elrond replied sulkily, “It is your fault for siding with her so blatantly. Why did you give your seat to her?”

“It is her right to sit at your right, my dear Elrond,” Erestor said quietly as he straightened an ink pot, “She is your wife!”

“I want you to sit at my right!” Elrond said angrily, “She can sit at my left, move Glorfindel a seat further if you want. But I will not attend suppers if you persist on with this arrangement!”

“Elrond,” Erestor’s voice was low, “To sit at a lord’s right is the honour given to his bonded-mate. Celebrían is your wife. If you insist on me occupying that seat, what will be the interpretation? That I am your consort!”

“What do you mean to say?” Elrond asked quietly. There was a hollow expression in Erestor’s eyes that struck him to the very core.

“I have sat at Gil-Galad’s right for centuries, Elrond, as his bonded-mate. It was my right. And Isildur called me a whore, a concubine to the king. Is that what you want men to say? That the herald has taken possession of the king’s favourite bedwarmer?”

“Erestor!” Elrond said scandalized as he walked to the silently shivering figure, “Gil-Galad loved you. He was ever faithful to you as you were to him. Do not let a dead fool’s words tarnish your bonds of marriage! Gil-Galad considered you his equal in marriage, we both know that!”

“Yes,” Erestor nodded, “What I mean to say is that not everyone knows that. Especially the Second-Born. Some of their rumours are too sordid to hear.”

“I will let Celebrían take the right seat,” Elrond said quietly, “If you take the left.”

“Certainly, I am glad that you see my point,” Erestor smiled wanly, “And be nicer to her, Elrond. She is not Anoriel. She does not have the strength to stand up to you. She was in tears after today’s mess.”

“Glorfindel and you were pampering her enough,” Elrond shrugged, “I think that was quite enough sympathy. You were practically her champion.”

“Elrond!” Erestor said scandalized, “One would think that you were jealous of her! I merely wanted to do things right and you know that.”

“Yes,” Elrond shrugged, “But the fact remains that I do not like you championing anyone except me. And in case, you did not notice, her eyes were on you throughout the damn meal!”

“Now I have indeed heard everything,” Erestor rolled his eyes as he left the room.

* * *

Celebrían took a deep breath as Elrond entered her sewing chamber. Quietly, she asked her maids to leave so that she was alone with her husband. Elrond was dressed in pale brown robes that set off his half-elven heritage to an advantage. He smiled nervously at her and joined her by the window. She did not offer him a seat. She was no fool. He had probably come here to apologize for his rudeness on Erestor’s persuasion.

“I wish that I had stayed with Ada Maglor till the end,” he said abruptly staring at the gardens before him, “Then none of this would have happened. You would have been happy with someone else.”

She sighed at his bitter words. While she did sincerely sympathize with him, she felt resentful that he did not try to at least act like her husband.

“I would be honoured if you sat to my right at suppers from today,” he said quietly, “I am sorry for the scene I caused last night. I did not mean any insult to you. It was merely that I feel guilty Erestor is not honoured as much as he should be. He had the major part in building Imladris and even today, he manages the realm.”

“Lord Erestor is a wonderful person,” she replied, “I will take the seat to your left if it is all right with Glorfindel. As you say, Erestor deserves to be more honoured for all that he does for elvendom.”

Elrond smiled, this time it was a smile of relief and happiness, he said eagerly, “I will tell Erestor this news immediately. He will, of course, not agree. But he will be at least happy that you would willingly do this.”

“I will beg him to accept, Elrond,” she smiled thinly, wondering why he could not even try to make their relationship work, “Is there anything else?”

“No,” he said with a deep bow, “I will leave you to your pursuits then,” his eyes roved over the seamstresses’ works littering the room, “I will be happy to help you in any way I can with the procurement of materials or things of that kind. The gardens are in full bloom. My congratulations to you and Lindir, it is a job well done!”

He left the room with a smile on his lips even as Celebrían thought of employing one of those wandering groups of Wild Men to murder a whole lot of people who had wrecked her life.

 

“I did not!” Gildor said angrily to an equally irate Glorfindel, “Trust me, I swear, I did not know that it was with Elrond that he was involved!” 

“Elrond loves him,” Glorfindel informed him flatly, “Loved him for centuries all through his marriage to Gil! How do you think we pulled Erestor from Mandos after Gil’s fall in the battle? Elrond bonded with him.”

“Elbereth!” Gildor whispered as he raised his hand to his forehead despairingly, “What have I done?”

“You did not know,” Glorfindel said wearily, “None of us knew how deep Elrond’s love is. It will wreck all our lives, Gildor. He will never take another lover even if the fate of entire Middle-Earth depended on it.”

“Who would have known that Oropher has such a devoted disciple?” Gildor said angrily, “You should talk Elrond out of this!”

“What makes you think that I have not been trying to do that for the last eighteen centuries?” Glorfindel demanded wryly.

“It is too late to make amends,” Gildor closed his eyes, “I am sorry, Glorfindel. I am sorry for destroying their lives and happiness. I knew only what Celeborn told me that day. I will ride immediately to Lothlórien and speak with the lady to see what can be done.”

“It was Celeborn then,” Glorfindel spat furiously, “Between him and his lady, all our lives will be pawned for naught. You will not see Erestor then? He is on the borders, I can send for him.”

“No,” Gildor shook his head with weary, yet fierce determination, “I will never know a moment’s rest until I can repair my mistake. I will not step on the soil of Imladris until I set things right.”

Glorfindel watched Gildor ride alone on his great black mare, a dark spot on the bleak whiteness of the great Misty Mountains.

 

“I do seriously doubt your advice,” Thranduil muttered as he read through the latest reports of orc incursions in his realm, his fingers massaging his forehead.

“I have been alive for more centuries than you can even dream to count!” Thalion retorted, “Trust me, young lord, this is just a migration of those goblins back to the lands of Mordor.”

“I feel differently,” Thranduil leant back in his chair with a deep sigh, “It started after Isildur’s death. And the orcs take the southern route. That does not lead to Mordor as you well know, wise Thalion.”

Thalion opened his mouth to debate more, but an aide entered and bowed to them saying, “A scroll from Imladris, My Lord King.”

Thranduil took the letter and eased back into his chair, as he broke open the seal, he saw the familiar elegant script of the chief-counsellor.

‘Ernil-nîn,

I am in deep need of your counsel. 

Erestor.

 

Meet me at the third outpost on the Hithalegir on the night of the full moon this fortnight’.

“Trouble?” Thalion asked as he watched Thranduil’s frowning features with concern.

“No,” Thranduil replied with a forced lightness, his head ache had worsened considerably, “Thalion, if you will not mind, I think I shall retire for tonight. Is there any pressing business that we should see to immediately?”

“None, young lord,” the ancient healer said worriedly, “You seem ill. There are dark circles underneath your eyes. Is anything wrong?”

The king’s lips lit up in a wry grin as he said, “Indeed, my dear Thalion! Lack of sleep. Both Anoriel and I have been trying too hard these last few nights, I fear!”

“Maybe you should reduce the frequency and increase the quality of your lovemaking,” Thalion advised serenely even as Thranduil choked on the glass of water he had been drinking.

 

 

“I do not know why your husband would deliberately mislead me!” Gildor barked at a weary looking Galadriel.

“Gildor,” she said sincerely, “I do not know either. I will speak to him regarding this as soon as I can.”

“I must meet him now!” Gildor said angrily, “Have you any idea of the situation at Imladris? Celebrían is frustrated with Elrond’s lack of interest in this marriage. Elrond, being Elrond, holds true to his love for Erestor. And Erestor is trying to convince him to do his duty by your child!”

“I will call my husband,” Galadriel said giving in to his demand, “Gildor, I grieve at my daughter’s condition. When I had sealed their alliance, I had expected that Elrond would understand the necessity. All that is required is an heir. Why is he deliberately being so difficult? He does not have to even take responsibility of my daughter or their offspring. I will take it upon myself willingly!”

Gildor shrugged saying, “Call Lord Celeborn, we shall sort matters then. For now, I think I will retire. There are many matters that I must discuss with Lord Amroth too.”

 

 

She walked to her husband’s talan. They had been living in separate talans since the night before Celebrían’s departure to Imladris decades ago. She would occasionally try to approach him, but he would always pretend as if he had not even seen her. It broke her heart, but she bore it bravely. Their love and bonds could never be sundered easily by a disagreement. 

Yet it did worry her that his mind was ever closed to her. She no longer knew of his activities or journeys. There were rumours of lovers, but none had ever been confirmed. Galadriel knew from her past experience that if Celeborn took a lover then their bond would be awash with sinful pleasure. That had not happened so far. 

She ascended the steps to his talan, her mind on her daughter’s plight. She was ready to prostate herself before Celeborn if needed, but she was determined. Celeborn and she had to present a united front, travel to Imladris to visit her child and then maybe they could persuade Elrond. Yes, with Erestor’s aid, she was sure that her idea would succeed.

More confidently, she knocked on the door, a nervous smile flickering on her features as she waited uneasily. The door opened a crack and a blond haired elf poked his head out. Seeing her, he gasped and stood stunned. Galadriel knew that she was feared by most of Amroth’s Sylvan subjects who considered her Noldor ancestry and tutelage under a Maia suspicious. 

She assumed this elf must be one of them and she asked politely, “Is Lord Celeborn in?” 

“Yes,” the elf bit his lips uncertainly even as Galadriel gently pushed the door wider open, “I will call him.”

Galadriel smiled in assent even as she wondered why Celebron had been assigned such an untidily dressed guard. Shrugging, she made her way into the sitting room. There was the sound of a scuffle from the inner chambers that made her concerned. But soon Celeborn emerged, wearing a thin robe that clung to his shoulders. His cold, blue eyes looked upon her disdainfully.

“I have just met Gildor. He says that, two decades ago, you told him of Erestor’s deep involvement with a warrior of Imladris,” Galadriel looked for a sign of emotion on her husband’s frozen features.

“Glad to know that someone regales you with my two-decade old anecdotes,” he said ironically as he continued to stare at her, his eyes slightly darker than usual. 

“Our child--,” Galadriel began softly, but Celeborn cut her off saying in a low tone, “Hear this, Altariel! Hear this well, for I shall say this no more, Celebrían is my child, you lost all rights to call her yours the night you pawned her to Elrond. After that, you perversely brought Erestor and him together. That has doomed ‘Bría to sorrow! I will not tolerate this. My child, a sacrifice for your alliances. None of you have lost anything except for her! The day you doomed her, I buried my love for you. From now on, you act as you see fit and I shall act as I see fit!”

“Hervenn-nin,” she said pleadingly, “The line of Finwë cannot fail. I have foreseen the future of the heirs of Elrond.”

“Go make heirs with Elrond yourself then,” he spat even as she cringed at his sharp words. He seemed to realize the cruelty of his words for he took a deep breath to calm himself.

They remained silent for a few moments. The wind rustled through the mallorn and a strange scent that Galadriel could never forget wafted to her nostrils. Shocked, she stared at him. His eyes met hers in cold defiance.

“You have been betraying our vows again,” Galadriel said in a whisper, even as she shivered suddenly. The scent of his semen, she could never fail to recognize it.

“You have not given me a reason to stay true to them,” he shrugged as he turned to leave, “I would dissolve our bonds if it had not been for my child.”

She slumped to the floor in a silent cry as her bonded-mate and husband of many millennia discarded their vows to take his pleasure from the young elf she had seen a few moments ago. 

A loud, unrestrained cry of passion broke the silence of the night and she rose to her feet shaking in helpless grief, pain and anger. As if to complete his revenge, Celeborn opened his mind to her, filling their bond with images of passion and wanton lust. 

That did it. Something tore within her heart. With an unearthly scream, Galadriel, once Artanis, cherished daughter of Finarfin, ran down the steps of the talan. Blindly, she continued running. Those who tried to stop her were pushed away madly. She did not even notice that Gildor was trying to soothe her in Quenya, struggling to keep up with her mad pace. 

She saw a brown mare. Only desiring to escape from her husband’s sight, from her kin’s sight, she clambered onto the mare and slumped in the saddle. 

The last thing she heard before losing consciousness was Gildor’s cry of “She has gone mad; call for Celeborn!”

 

“Erestor,” Celebrían said lazily, as she sat across the chief-counsellor in his study, “Erestor, are you even listening to my rants?”

“What a grievous accusation,” Celebrían smiled at the teasing tone even though Erestor had not looked up from his work, “I believe that I have been listening with devoted concentration. Shall I recount your rants?”

“No,” she laughed feeling a warmth rise in her when Erestor glanced up to smile at her before returning to his work, “It is just that I know I must be boring you with my conversation. I am not a warrior like Glorfindel. I cannot understand your many skills unlike Elrond. You hate sewing, gardening, cooking and decorating. That is all I do. So I wonder why you continue to indulge me.”

“Does your father sew?” Celebrían shook her head, “Garden?” she shook her head once more, “Cook? Decorate?” Celebrían laughed at the image of her father cooking that flashed through her mind.

“He does not, of course!” She said breathlessly when her laughter had finally subsided. Erestor was watching her with eyes filled with amusement.

“Yet he likes your company?” he continued with his questioning as he bent down to his scroll.

“Yes,” Celebrían sighed, “He does. I am loath to be parted from him.”

“So if you father does enjoy your company despite the fact that he does not sew, garden, cook or decorate,” Erestor leant back in his chair, his silken shirt slightly parting to reveal white skin as he did, “Then, ‘Bría, why would I not enjoy it?”

She said softly, “You are a master of words.”

“There are many things that I am proficient in, ‘Bría,” Erestor laughed for the first time that day, Celebrían felt herself soothed by the low, melodious sound, “If you care to find out, you might learn of my many hidden talents.”

“I was told that you are a passionate soul underneath all your robes and sobriety,” Celebrían bit her tongue for her recklessness, “But I have never seen you thus.” 

Erestor’s eyes widened a fraction as her words sunk in. He said irritably, “Thranduil could never keep a secret.”

“I did not say that it was Thranduil!” she said hastily, “I was merely repeating what the rumour mills of Imladris say.”

He seemed ill at ease as he asked neutrally, “And what do they say? It is well known that I have no lover, ‘Bría. Where do your rumour mills get their fodder from?”

Celebrían wondered why he was suddenly on his guard almost as if he expected some startling accusation. Shrugging she said, “Many of our warriors fought alongside you in the battle. Many of them are married. Many of their wives aid me in the gardens. Tales of a passionate chief-counsellor and a virile high-king have been on the top lists of rumour mills.”

“Ah!” Erestor relaxed visibly, “’Bría, I really cannot give an answer to that, can I? But what is your view?” he was falling back to their easy banter.

Celebrían watched him. His dark, black hair was brushed back into a single, austere plait that highlighted his pale, sharp-boned, aristocratic face. He bore great resemblance to those portraits of the princes of the house of Finwë. A smile played on his lips as he met her gaze coolly. Those eyes, she wondered how they would be in passion. She had once seen them smouldering in one meeting gone awry with traders of Gondor. She had been struck by the fire in his eyes then. She wondered how his body was underneath the smooth robes.

“You are taking a long time to make a statement,” he said smirking as he returned to his document.

“I was wondering,” she shrugged, her hair bouncing off her round shoulders, “Maybe I shall give an opinion after I talk to Glorfindel or Elrond. They might know of the depths of your passion. How can I give an opinion of an elf I have not even danced with?”

”Is that a complaint?” he asked amusedly, “I love dancing, but I am afraid that only Elrond or Thranduil can keep pace with me. But certainly, at the next ball, I shall claim your hand for a dance.”

“I will hold you to that promise,” she said with a blush. She wondered why she was so attracted to someone once married to the high-king.

* * *

Elrond walked into his wife’s chambers without even bothering to knock. Glorfindel followed him.

“Yes?” Celebrían asked curiously as she looked up from a letter she had been reading.

“Did Erestor say where he was going?” Elrond demanded worriedly as he paced in increasing agitation.

“What?” she was honestly ignorant, “He did not tell me anything. Why?”

Elrond glared at her as if it was her fault. She was about to make a sharp remark when Glorfindel intervened hastily, “Elrond, I am sure that he merely took a ride on the new stallion Círdan sent him. He has been enthusiastic. Maybe he simply forgot to tell us of his journey.”

“It is not wise to ride alone!” Elrond scowled.

“Elrond,” Glorfindel said with a deep sigh, “He is a proven warrior who has ridden against the wraiths. He can take care of himself.”

“He is reckless and you know that!” Elrond bristled, “Every time he leaves on a journey he gets into a skirmish.”

“Elrond, he will be all right,” Glorfindel said soothingly as he led him out with an apologetic glance at Celebrían.

 

Anoriel watched her husband sneak out from the stables, a hood pulled over his fair mane. She turned back warily to make sure that their personal guards were still busy with the bottle of Dorwinion that Thranduil had grudgingly sacrificed for this cause. 

“Pssst,” Thranduil called to her, “Don’t let the dotard know.”

Anoriel rolled her eyes, “You owe me one, Thranduil!”

“You can dress me in yellow robes,” he offered graciously.

“Just shut your mouth and be gone! If Thalion sees us, our skins will not be worth anything,” she said darkly, “And keep put of trouble.”

“As you command, my Queen,” he bowed in mock subservience making a grudging smile light her features.

 

Celebron hastily dressed and armoured himself. Gildor had already taken a patrol out after Galadriel. 

“Celeborn?” Amroth’s voice was concerned as the king entered his talan.

“Yes? I am riding out with the next patrol, Amroth. We have to find her before she reaches the Vale Of Anduin. Orcs have been amassing there of late,” Celeborn said worriedly.

“Do you happen to know why she went raving mad just like that?” Amroth asked quietly, his eyes never leaving Celeborn’s.

“How am I to know?” Celeborn said huffily, “The whole of the city knows that we have been parted for nearly two decades! She does not tell me of her comings and goings, no more than I tell her of mine.”

“Then why are you so concerned of her safety?” Amroth asked curiously, “If there is only bitterness in your relationship, then why do you hasten to seek her?”

“Because,” Celeborn said wringing his hands, “Because she is my wife!” 

Amroth raised an eyebrow. 

“I don’t expect you to understand! You will never know of the hold of bonds forged millennia ago!” Celeborn said angrily.

“Well,” Amroth said defiantly, “I may not know of bonds, but I do know of love and the fidelity that is supposed to go hand in hand with it!”

Celeborn snorted furiously as he left the room. Moments later, Amroth saw the Silver Tree of Lorien lead a group of archers into the plains.

 

Elrond frowned when he saw the neatly sealed scroll on his bed. Hurrying to the bed, he broke the seal and began reading it with increasing apprehension.

 

‘Elrond,

I know you will be probably searching all of Imladris for me by now. Do not worry. I am merely riding out to meet our prince. I will be back ere dawn the day after tomorrow. I am sorry that I did not tell you, but you know well that you would not have permitted me to leave. This journey is necessary and I know you will understand,

Ever,  
Erestor.’

 

Elrond rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration. He knew that he was over-protective of Erestor. Thranduil had often berated him for it. Elrond had to admit that he would have scuttled Erestor’s journey if he had known earlier. He sighed, as Glorfindel had patiently explained the entire day, Erestor was a proven warrior. And if he wished to meet Thranduil, then Elrond had to bow in to his wishes. Thranduil had been increasingly morose in his recent letters to Imladris. Erestor, too, had become slightly gloomy cooped up in Imladris. Maybe Erestor’s journey would cheer them both.

“Did you find him?” Celebrían entered the room softly, a disapproving expression on her face.

“He has left a letter,” Elrond said shrugging, “He will return the day after tomorrow.”

“You coop him up too much,” Celebrían said sternly, “He is not a soul who can rest behind the walls of his home.”

“You speak as if you know him well,” Elrond stared at her suspiciously, “These days you are spending much time in his company, are you not?”

“Do you have anything against it?” she raised her chin proudly, “I thought that you did not care for my companions.”

“Mistake me not!” He said hastily, “All I meant was that he is a difficult person to make an acquaintance of outside of work.”

“He is a noble soul,” she said quietly, “He sees what you do not.”

“Meaning?” his brows were alarmingly high on his pale forehead.

“Nothing,” she shrugged, “I really do not know why you are so concerned. Leave it be. I will retire now.”

“No,” Elrond said in a calmer voice, “I have been meaning to ask, Celebrían, are you attracted to the chief-counsellor?”

“And if I were?” She did not notice the sudden pallor of his features as he started pacing again.

“It is not my concern, of course,” he was biting his nails nervously, “Yet, as Glorfindel might tell you, Erestor and I are good friends of many centuries. I do not wish to see him hurt. ‘Bría, he hasn’t taken a lover since his bonded-mate died,” he hated himself for lying, but he continued, “And I do not want you to be hurt too. It is possible that he is not ready for something like this.”

She said frankly, “I will never use him, if that is what you are worried about.”

“No,” Elrond smiled grimly, “I am not worried about anything. You are both quite capable of dealing with your own lives without my meddling. All I meant was that I did not wish to see anyone hurt.”

“I am honoured by your concern,” she smiled politely before turning to leave. A draped door almost concealed in the darkness arrested her attention. Wondering idly why Elrond would need a door there, she turned to face her husband again. He was pacing again restlessly.

“When did you meet him first?” she asked quietly.

“Whom?” he frowned as he turned to face her.

“Whom you love,” she said softly, “When did you meet him?”

“I met him in Lindon eighteen centuries ago,” he said quietly, his eyes darkening slightly, “In Gil-Galad’s court.”

“Will you tell me?” she asked gently as a single tear trailed down his austere cheek, “Atleast may I know why you continue to love him?”

“I can only say that perhaps loving him has become an integral part of who I am,” he sighed as he tried to paste a smile for her sake, “Everyday when I see you sad, I try to wish I had never met him. But I cannot regret meeting him, or falling in love with him. ‘Bría, I confess that I can never treat you as you deserve to be treated. But for both our sakes, we must try to make this work somehow.”

“What do you suggest?” she raised her eyebrows, “How is the heir supposed to be born when you refuse to cooperate?”

“I say that,” his eyes glittered with something akin to battle lust, making her shudder slightly, “We are both victims of your mother’s plans. Our oaths are not Valar hallowed. You are free to choose your path as I am free to choose mine. I will protect you and whom you love as long as I breathe. Make your own destiny, ‘Bría. Do not give into Galadriel’s plans.”

“My mother wishes to ensure the continuation of the line of Finwë” , she said coldly, “And even I, with my limited knowledge of politics, know that this alliance is necessary to build back the bonds and alliances between Lothlórien, Imladris, and our bloodlines. The line of Finwë fails, who will lead the next battle against Sauron when he rises again?”

“You are right,” Elrond scowled, “But the Valar will not forsake Middle-Earth. There is no need why we should ensure that the line of Finwë continues.”

“I do not know why you persist in your stubbornness,” she laughed at his pouting, “I am leaving for home in a few weeks. Ada has called me. Try to understand our situation in my absence, I will return only after the winter.”

“Yes,” Elrond sighed, “I will ask Glorfindel to convey you there. Thranduil says that orcs have been prowling near the Anduin River. I will arrange a good escort.”

“Anoriel used to ride alone,” Celebrían shrugged, “During their courting. And those were far more dangerous times.”

“You can put that idea out of your pretty head, ‘Bría,” Elrond said with a fierce glower, “I will put together an escort when you wish to leave. Anoriel was headstrong, and so was Thranduil. I really do not want you to try out their exploits. Celeborn would kill me if something happened, and with my luck, something might!”

 

Galadriel did not know where she was. Her mare was foundering tiredly. She loosened her grip on the dark, brown mane as she tried to shut her mind to her wedding bond. She did not want Celeborn to find her through that. He was trying hard to enter her mind, she resisted him with all her strength. That last humiliation, she could not bear it. She would die in the wild. She did not care. All she wanted was to never look upon her husband again.

Her mare whinnied softly. Exhaustedly, she looked up. Wolves surrounded her. Only five of them. Yet, she knew that they would take her worn-out mare down. She smiled bitterly as she tried to straighten herself in the saddle. This was how her beloved brother, Finrod, had died. It seemed fitting that her end would also be in a wolf’s belly.

* * *

Thranduil softly nudged his mare on. Winter was fast approaching and the mountain paths were almost knee deep with snow. Only the spryness of his horse and his unsurpassed horsemanship had saved him from being unseated. Above him the moon shone brightly, throwing dark shadows of the towering crags onto the bleak snow. Winter nights on the paths of the Misty Mountains were only for the most foolish. Thranduil wondered how he had recklessly braved the cold to meet Anoriel in Imladris during their courting.

At the highest point of the next ridge stood a familiar black stallion, its mane flowing in the cold wind. Next to the horse stood a slender figure, clad in a black cloak and boots. Thranduil increased his pace and dismounted next to Erestor. Their eyes travelled over each other in concern before they broke into grins and hugged each other tightly.

“It has been too long,” Thranduil muttered as he drew back and kissed Erestor’s nose lightly, “We have not met since the last summer.”

“Yes,” Erestor sighed as he wrapped his arm around Thranduil’s waist, “Come, I have a fire lit in the hut that serves as the way post, call your mare too. It is too cold here.”

They settled their mounts with the ease born of experience and then drew nearer to the fire. Erestor sat down on the bare rug cross-legged, but Thranduil flopped down lazily and nestled his head in Erestor’s lap, reaching up with his hands to caress the unusually sombre face.

“Elrond is acting as I expected him to?” Thranduil asked quietly, relishing the feel of Erestor’s long fingers thread through his hair.

“Yes,” Erestor said, “I asked him to think of the future. Celebrían is also finally accepting of this alliance. The only problem is Elrond.”

“Do you regret that I told you about his love before the council in Lothlórien?” Thranduil’s green eyes held Erestor’s black ones prisoners.

Erestor averted his gaze to the fire as he spoke thoughtfully, almost as if to himself, “I had always liked Elrond, from the first time I met him in Gil’s court. Then after my marriage to Gil, I had never allowed my thoughts to stray. I wanted to be faithful and loyal to him always. I tried to give him all I was. He was a noble soul,” the dark eyes glittered with untold regrets and pain, “Even when I felt let down by his failure to support me many a time, I could always sense his love through our bond. There was love, care and understanding, even if the passion was never enough for me. Passion does not make a marriage, care and respect does. So I learnt to love him.”

“And now?” Thranduil asked gently as he took Erestor’s hands and caught them in his firm grasp, “Now what do you feel?”

“Gil is in Mandos. You know as well as I the doom upon our house. He will stay there till the re-breaking of the worlds,” Erestor said quietly.

“I asked Elrond to bind with you to pull you back from the Halls of Waiting,” Thranduil confessed, “I do not regret that. You are irreplaceable. I love you as my best friend, as a brother in arms. And Elrond himself would not have survived. Glorfindel also.”

“When you told me of what he had done,” Erestor’s voice had softened, “I was shocked, I was scared. I had dragged him into a futile bond. I told him that. But when he confessed to me of his feelings, I felt like kicking myself to death. So long, and I had never noticed. I had always known that he was in love, but I had never suspected that I might be the person to hold his heart. I did what I could do to make reparation that night, I pledged myself to his wishes. I even dared to hope that it might work for us. Finally, on our first night back in Imladris, we made love.”

“You did not approach him out of gratitude, did you?” Thranduil’s voice was cautious, yet slightly trembling.

“No, Ernil-nîn,” Erestor said firmly, “I had begun to think of him more and more after that night in Lorien. I have always felt the safest when with him or Glorfindel or you. Elrond and I share a lot of interests. He is as passionate as I am. All those things that I missed in Gil, I see in Elrond. And I feel that I am slowly falling in love with him. It is ironic, is it not? Both of us know that he needs to accept Celebrían. He needs heirs. And I, being the chief-counsellor, have advised him to choose the right way. But, Thranduil, I wish selfishly that he did not touch her. I want him.”

“You want him? As in, you desire him as I did?” Thranduil asked solemnly, “If it is want, then it is not a hardship. There are no rules against that.”

“No,” Erestor buried his head on Thranduil’s chest, “I want him, as in I want him more beyond the mere physical coupling sense. I have not taken a lover since we made love, Thranduil. I have tried to, hoping that it might spite him enough to consummate his marriage. But I cannot even stand looks of lust directed at him when we are in company. Jealousy, possessiveness, loneliness,” he smiled bitterly, “I feel them all, Thranduil, I fear I am in love with him deeply.”

“He will be on bliss when he knows that his love is finally requited in equal measure of passion and depth,” Thranduil said quietly.

“I am more worried about where this will end than about my heart or his,” Erestor said in a tortured tone, “He assumes that I merely gave in to his feelings that night because of a mixture of gratitude and need for bodily comfort. I have never given him a chance to know of my true feelings regarding this. I will not cause further estrangement between him and Celebrían. I have done enough to destroy his life.”

“If you feel more than mere desire for him, then it is imperative that you tell him,” Thranduil counselled sternly, “In this dark time, it may give him the much needed will and courage.”

“Will and courage to continue resisting their alliance?” Erestor spat, “No, Thranduil, I will spurn him if needs be, but I will not encourage him to hurt her any more. She is already suffering too much. She is caught in the eye of this tempest; Elrond, her mother, her father, the expectations of the whole of elvendom: she is too frail to carry this burden unaided.” 

“So you are trying to be chivalrous?” Thranduil enquired wryly.

“What would you do?” Erestor asked quietly.

Thranduil said slowly, “In your place, I would tell Elrond what I feel. You know how insecure he is. All that scowling and shouting is just a mask to hide his true feelings. It was how he managed to conceal his love on the day after you accepted Gil’s proposal.”(refer The Song Of Sunset: Chapter One – ‘The Consequences Of A Sunset’)

Erestor sighed, “Celebrían is not to be hurt, Ernil-nîn. Valar knows, the poor lady has suffered enough in Imladris. I was nearly on the verge of confession when she recently spoke to me of the rumours in Imladris regarding my passionate interior. Will you at least try to make Elrond accept his duty? You would have consummated the marriage if you had been in his place. It is the duty of a leader.”

“I will not talk to him regarding this!” Thranduil said with a roll of his eyes, “He will not listen to me or to anyone else. You know that well. Let me try to contact Celeborn and maybe we can sort things in a better way.”

“Like what?” Erestor asked wryly, “Making them couple under threat of murder?”

“Knowing Elrond, even that will not work,” Thranduil laughed unrestrainedly, the cold draught momentarily kept at bay by the warmth of his melodious voice, “Oh, ‘Restor, I have missed our conversations.”

“I thought you were busy with your experiments,” Erestor smirked, “The riders from Greenwood tell unbelievable tales of an over-enthusiastic, unrestrained, wild royal couple who have given the term ‘passion’ a new meaning. However does Anoriel keep up with you?”

“She has many a secret hidden underneath that demure appearance,” Thranduil chuckled lovingly as he thought of her, “Amdir must have fostered her. She is a female Orome, believe me!” 

“You suit each other well,” Erestor smiled happily, “And I am glad for that. Your happiness and love is one of the few things that I delight in these days.”

“Come with me to Greenwood for a few weeks then,” Thranduil said seriously, “It may help you refresh your mind.”

“No,” Erestor said bluntly as he shoved Thranduil’s head off from his lap. He got to his feet and began fiddling about in a sack, unearthing lembas and a cask of miruvor. He resumed his seat and Thranduil reclaimed his head rest lazily.

“No?” Thranduil asked in between bites of the lembas.

“Elrond may vent his irritation on Celebrían. If I am there, I can at least try to restrain his rashness,” Erestor shrugged, “He never means to be rude to her. And always end up feeling guilty afterwards. You know him.”

Thranduil smiled at the truth of his friend’s words and began singing softly as they passed the miruvor back and forth. 

Erestor’s hands caressed his forehead and the chief-counsellor asked baldly, “What bothers you?”

“Nothing,” Thranduil frowned up at him, “Why?”

“You cannot hide from me,” Erestor sighed, “No more than I can hide from you. What is it?”

“I suppose I am frustrated at not having an heir yet after so much of effort,” Thranduil grinned.

“These things require time. We are yet to recover from the horrors and the losses of the battle,” Erestor pressed his lips to Thranduil’s forehead as the king’s eyes flashed with regrets, “I know you still grieve for many. So does she. When your grief lessens, I am sure that you will introduce me to the first of many spirited Thranduilions.”

Thranduil wrinkled his nose as he muttered, “She wants a dozen of them! I am not sure that I can put up with so many. But you are right, once the grief lessens, we will succeed. Now, lovemaking is more a comfort to stave off memories.”

“So what else bothers you?” Erestor asked laconically.

“You are too cunning,” Thranduil sighed as he looked up into the amused black eyes above him, “Too cunning for your own good.”

“Tell me,” Erestor commanded as he began sifting through the golden hair in his hands once again.

“The orcs are amassing in the Vales of the Anduin,” Thranduil’s voice was sombre, devoid of his usual cheer, “The ring was last traced there as you well know. Gondor is weak and does not defend the river past its own borders. Amroth is not even as strong a ruler as Amdir was. That leaves an open path for anyone till my borders. I try to hold them secure, but our numbers are too few. The forest is immense, you know that. I cannot afford to post permanent guards in many of the southern out posts. Thalion, Anoriel and many of my advisors say that I am merely being too wary. But I know differently.”

“How do you say that?” Erestor asked quietly, “In your letters, you mentioned that orcs have been breaching even the borders of Lothlórien, how do you know that?”

“The forests, Erestor,” Thranduil’s voice was hollow, “The Greenwood has become a pulse in my veins. I feel the movement of each creature in it, the breeze, the forest fires, the rippling streams. I do not know the reason, but I am bound to the forest in some way.”

“What?” Erestor’s voice was amazed, “Had Oropher ever felt this pull?”

“No,” Thranduil said sombrely, “My tie to this land has always been stronger than his. He suspected it. That is why he was keen to keep me away from Greenwood once I reached my majority. He sent me to Lindon, to the harbour and to Lothlórien. But Greenwood called me relentlessly. The land has always strengthened me, even aided me in trouble. But, as Galadriel once said, nothing comes without a payment. I fear what that would be.”

“You must speak to Círdan of this. He experiences this attraction when he is on a ship. I have always wondered how he resists the call. He will be able to give you some advice regarding this,” Erestor continued morosely, “Of course, it is too much to hope that everything goes right with you.”

“I did not wish to worry you,” Thranduil said sadly, “But you purged it out of me.”

“And I am glad I did,” Erestor said quietly, “We are both likely to keep our burdens secret until they harm us grievously. Is it not well that we are there to support each other through suffering and battle? You can call upon me if you need to talk further of this. I will personally meet Círdan as soon as I can and send you his advice. I know you can ill afford to leave your realm now.”

“I don’t honestly think that I can ever leave my realm again,” Thranduil laughed, “Everything is in chaos. Everyday is a nightmare.”

“But you will manage,” Erestor said confidently, “You will.”

“You sound quite confident,” Thranduil muttered darkly, “I wish I had the same confidence in myself.”

“Great Heavens!” Erestor laughed, “My self-confident, arrogant princeling friend so lacking in faith! What has the world come to?”

“Erestor, Need I remind you that you have come to seek my counsel in murky matters, a sordid love triangle?” Thranduil said sweetly.

Erestor scowled before lapsing into a wry grin as he said, “As always you destroy my hopes and keep me on the ground pessimistically.”

“What are friends for?” Thranduil laughed as he leant to press a warm kiss on Erestor’s lips before remarking, “Harder than before, I guess.”

“You have grown used to female flesh,” Erestor rolled his eyes. In merrier spirits they made their way to their mounts, their laughter resounding in the wind.

“Anoriel’s gifts,” Thranduil tossed a large bundle to Erestor, who caught it nimbly.

“I did not think to bring her anything,” Erestor said with self-loathing as he rummaged about in his saddle-bags and unearthed a book, “Except for this. She will love it.”

“What is it?” Thranduil squinted at the Quenya title suspiciously, there was too little light for even elven eyes to discern the runes.

“A handbook written by the fair Nerdanel, on how she managed to produce seven sons with her lousy husband,” Erestor laughed as he mounted his horse, “Anoriel might write another account after she brings forth a dozen sons with her lousy husband.”

Thranduil’s retort was lost on the wind as they rode down the steep slopes of the peak in opposite directions, their spirits lighter.

* * *

A white tree stood withered and bare. He frowned, he had heard the story of this tree. The Tree Of Gondor ……

The vision changed, he saw a woman more beautiful than any other he had ever seen. Her full figure contrasted sharply with the slender forms of the maidens who attended to her. On her breast lay a pendant. As he looked at the beautiful face of the lady, he glimpsed traces of Celebrían and Celeborn. The raven-black hair floated gently about her shoulders as she whispered, “The Lay of Lúthien shall be sung again.”……

A lone form walked along the seashore, its shoulders slumped in despair and grief. He tried to call out to the sufferer. The figure turned and he gasped as he saw the emerald-green eyes of his friend……  
“Ernil-nîn?” he asked anxiously as the other elf showed no sign of recognition. This was not his friend. This elf was more slender, more like Oropher……

He saw a strongly built, commanding elf facing him.   
“Cousin?” he breathed.  
“Yes, why do you still pine for one who belongs to me alone? Will you bring the doom of Finwë upon him?” the figure asked angrily.  
“No,” he whispered, “Never!”  
“You will make choices, cousin, and you will regret many of them!” the figure said forebodingly.  
“Wait!” he called after the elf as he disappeared into the mists……………

 

Elrond woke irritably. Dreams, he certainly never suffered from a lack of them. He tried to remember this particular one. But the details were already hazy in his sleep-fogged mind. He closed his eyes determinedly trying to find sleep again, pulling the bed covers to his chest. 

A door opened softly, he tensed. He had locked the entry door to his chambers. The only unlocked door was one that had never been opened since Gildor’s last tumultuous visit to Imladris. 

Elrond suppressed a moan of pleasure as a gentle, yet, sword and bow calloused hand soothed his brow followed by a whisper in the musical tone that he cherished so much, “Eru grant me the courage to do right by you.”

The hand withdrew followed a moment later by the soft creaking of the door. Elrond opened his eyes. Only a faint lingering scent of fresh earth testified to the presence of another. 

 

Elrond dressed in his customary muted grey robes and made his way down the corridor. Glorfindel and Erestor stood talking before the Balrog Slayer’s door. Elrond paused walking for a moment to admire the languid grace with which Erestor leant against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest lightly. His hair was unbound and tousled as if he had just returned from the baths. There was a smile on his lips as he conversed with Glorfindel.

“I see that you have returned from your wanderings,” Elrond spoke loudly as he approached them.

“Yes,” Erestor smiled, “Thranduil sent you his love and Anoriel as well as Thalion has sent you a few of the results of their new healing methods.”

“I am grateful,” Elrond said smiling back, “Is he well?”

A flicker of worry passed in Erestor’s eyes as he said lightly, “Well enough. He was worried that his enthusiastic attempts to make an elfling have not succeeded.”

Elrond decided to change the topic before his friends could once again seize the opportunity to nag him about his duty to produce an heir. 

 

Celeborn cursed aloud in frustration as his attempt to reach to his wife’s mind was once again thwarted. He could feel the resistance weakening steadily, but he feared that it was due to some danger that had occupied her concentration than her willingness to let herself be found and taken back to Lothlórien.

“No luck?” Gildor asked concernedly, his eyes roving on the plains as he tried to catch her trail.

“None,” Celeborn spat, “Valar knows what made her do that! Even now, she is not letting me into her mind.”

“Is there anyone who can mindspeak with her?” Gildor enquired, “Amroth?”

“No,” Celeborn said wearily, “Only Anoriel can do that in the royal family. But I fear that she is too far away to aid us. Amroth has however sent a dozen riders to the neighbouring realms to ask for their help.”

 

Elrond raised his eyebrow as the messenger from Lothlórien spoke hastily, “She left north, My Lord. We do not know if she had tried to take the Redhorn pass.”

“I do not think so,” Erestor said quietly, “Thranduil was returning home by the Redhorn pass. He would have found her had it been the case.”

“Still,” Glorfindel reasoned, “What if she had strayed from the road?”

“I think we should take the patrols out and do a sweep of the eastern slopes,” Erestor remarked after the messenger had retired, “If she had strayed, it could only be in that direction. The other slopes were nigh impassable.”

“Whatever made her act so recklessly?” Glorfindel mused thoughtfully.

“I think I can say,” Celebrían sighed deeply as she joined them, taking a seat beside Glorfindel, “She must have had a disagreement with my Father yet again.”

“Sometimes,” Elrond laughed wryly, “I am glad that I do not have them as my parents.”

 

Erestor caught up with Celebrían after they had all parted for different matters. Elrond and Glorfindel had left to the barracks to lead out the patrols.

“Are you well?” he asked gently.

She smiled wanly, “The robes look good on you. The deep green suits you rather well.”

“Well, Anoriel has always been an excellent seamstress,” Erestor shrugged, “And I am honoured that she gifts me robes frequently. But are you well?”

“It is my mother who is missing,” Celebrían said in a low voice, “Even if I hate her for the quandary she has landed me in, I am concerned. The wilds are no place for a solitary, unarmed woman. But I do hate her.”

“She has been through worse and endured to gloat over us all,” Erestor said reassuringly, laying a hand on her arm, she leant back onto him mechanically. 

He stiffened, but did not move away even when she wrapped her arms around his waist and buried her face in the front of his robes. Her restraint broke down when a smooth caress was bestowed on her hair. She sobbed uncontrollably, clinging onto him like a last hope, perhaps, he was. He held her until she had sobbed out the worst of her fears and then led her quietly to her chambers. He seemed to know the way to the bed easily that she nearly blurted out a question. But then, she thought, he had designed these rooms himself.

He sat her down on the bed and gently eased her back onto the soft mattress. Her vulnerability and fright reminded him of his own sister, now with her bonded-mate in the Havens of Círdan. 

She sniffled and said angrily, “Why does it always have to be me?”

“She will be safe,” he said with a confident smile as he stroked her fevered brow. She was looking at him so trustingly that it broke his heart. He was the main reason for her misery and this unconditional trust in him was unbearable.

He began singing quietly in his low, musical tone until her eyes were vacant in reverie.

 

Thranduil felt a sudden spasm of pain shoot through him as he rode fast across the grasslands. He had been following the Great Forest Road as he wanted to be back in his fortress by noon. He had ridden like the wind and was almost under the eaves of the Greenwood when he saw his warriors coming in the opposite direction. For a moment, he feared that Thalion had found about his little escapade. But then as the warriors looked at him bewildered, he was assured that it remained a secret.

“What is wrong?” he demanded imperiously.

“Sire, the Lady Galadriel is missing. She rode out of Lothlórien alone two days ago. She has yet to be found,” a captain answered, “The Queen commanded us to search for her trail as soon as she received the news, My King.”

Thranduil was shocked, but not so much. Galadriel had been missing for two days. He had sufficient trust in her abilities to evade harm. After all, she had come alone from Lindon a few centuries ago to seek her husband out. Maybe it was just one more episode in their tumultuous marriage. He nodded to his warriors and hastened to his fortress and to his Queen. 

 

Elrond sighed as he called off the last sweep of his warriors. The winds were strengthening and the snow was making movement hazardous. 

“No,” Glorfindel muttered worriedly as he joined Elrond on the cliff, “What do we now do?”

“Celeborn comes,” Elrond sighed, “We are to meet him further uphill. I really do not look forward to meet him now. He must be in a foul temper if this was the result of one of their spats.”

Glorfindel said, “Ah! Matrimony, I will never understand it.” He flicked his reins and Aslafoth marched on.

“I hope she is not harmed,” Elrond said sullenly, twisting his reins in his hands, “I had wished to personally slay her for all that she has done for me!” he followed his friend up the steep path.

The banners of Lothlórien fluttered in the wind. Celeborn was pacing frantically, his eyes on the bleak snow even as Amroth and Haldir attempted to explain the situation to Elrond and Glorfindel.

“She does not respond to mindspeak?” Elrond asked curiously.

“No,” Amroth sighed, “Lord Celeborn tried several times futilely. She resists his thoughts.”

“If it is because of one of their disagreements that the lady rode out,” Elrond said testily, “Then would it not make wisdom for someone other than Lord Celeborn to reach out to her mind?”

Celeborn spared him a very cold glance before saying, “I have tried to contact Anoriel. She will attempt to reach out to my wife.”

“What do you suggest we can do now?” Amroth asked quietly, “There are warriors enough to sweep the passes and the plains. Greenwood warriors are searching in the valley of the Anduin. Word has been sent to Moria, though we have not received much news from the dwarves in quite a while.”

“If she has crossed into the Greenwood, then we must ask for Thranduil’s help,” Elrond observed, “Only he knows those woods in their entirety. Even their warriors are often confused with the trails.”

“I have sent messengers,” Amroth said reassuringly, “Shall we ride through the pass once again? To make sure that we have not missed anything of importance?”

“She is not here,” Celeborn said bluntly, “I would have sensed her if it had been so.”

“How can you be so confident?” Gildor asked quietly, “She is skilled enough to resist your probing.”

“This has nothing to do with skill, My Lord Gildor,” Celeborn laughed bitterly, “This is what remains between two whose passion has died out. Yet, the memories of the past are deep enough to lead me to her if she is in the vicinity.”

 

 

Thranduil crept into his chambers discreetly, drawing on years of experience at avoiding Thalion. Anoriel smiled as he entered, he frowned. She wore her travelling cloak and riding gloves.

“What is it?” he asked concernedly.

Her smile faltered as she said lamely, “Amroth wishes me to take charge in Caras Galadhron until he returns with Galadriel. There is no one to rule.”

Thranduil wanted to oppose her, to make her stay. But then Oropher’s words came back to him,

“Never forget that she is a princess of her own people. She may be one day destined to lead them. When that day dawns, never let your selfishness stand between her and her duties. You are the crown prince. You must set standards. In your marriage, treat her as an equal. Always.”

He took a deep breath and smiled reassuringly and caressed her nervous features saying, “You are the Princess of Lorien as well as the Queen of Greenwood. Let me not stand between you and your duty.”

“I would choose you if you asked me to,” she said steadily.

“Then what would be the difference between Nimrodel and I?” Thranduil said gently, “My love for you has also my respect for your lineage, for what you are. Go to Lothlórien. I pray that our parting is not long.”

“Every moment I spend away from you is too long, Ernil-nîn,” she kissed him tenderly, her eyes watering at his noble choice to let her go without any argument as she had feared would be the case.

“I will send an escort,” he whispered as he held her close, “Take care and May Elbereth shine on your paths, Anor-nîn. Without you, my days are bound to be gloomy.”

“I am grateful to you for letting me go now,” she said quietly, “I had not expected you to. I love you the more for it.”

“My love for you is not selfish, Anor-nîn,” Thranduil said sincerely, “I was taught by my father never to love selfishly.”

“Now I understand the depth of our bonds,” Anoriel said wonderingly as gentle reassurance flooded her mind.

He watched with a smile on his lips and a grimace within his heart as she rode away with the warriors of Lothlórien who had come to escort her home. 

A pang of pain shot through him again. His eyes narrowed. Orcs were again trespassing in his forest realm. Well, he thought morosely, this time he was not going to let them live to tell the tale. Calling for his riders, he prepared to lead an assault.

* * *

Elrond felt a foreboding rise in him as he rode with his warriors along the Old Forest Path. He glanced over at Glorfindel, the Balrog Slayer looked worried as his deep, blue eyes roved the plains.

“My Lord!” A scout rushed to them, his fair face distraught.

“What is it?” Elrond asked quietly.

“Come, My Lords,” the scout panted, “Lord Celeborn has found something in the plains yonder. He calls for you.”

Elrond and Glorfindel rode after the scout, their hearts filled with worry. Elrond hated Galadriel, but he did value her intelligence. It had served them well in the battles and alliances. Somehow, he knew that they could not meet Mordor again unless she was alive.

“Elrond,” Amroth’s voice was soft, “Look here.”

Elrond dismounted hastily, his eyes widening at the sight before him. On the ground lay the rotting carcass of a horse. Its mane was torn and littered the grass. He knelt down by Amroth and carefully fingered the torn-apart carcass. Even the bones had been gnawed at. 

“Wolves,” Glorfindel breathed, “Was this her mount?”

“Yes,” Amroth said unhappily, “This was the horse she took on that day.”

“No sign of her?” Elrond demanded as he began searching the grass for any trail. Scavengers had probably made a feast out of the poor horse. Their trails and scents were all that he could track.

“We got this,” Celeborn said in a subdued tone as he tossed a length of a frayed, bloodied cloth at Elrond, who caught it nimbly, “It is from her dress.”

“And the blood?” Elrond held it to his noise, “She has been bitten.”

“Her blood,” Celeborn confirmed, “A trail of blood leads away from here into a small stream. From there we have no lead.”

“She cannot have gone too far,” Elrond rose to his feet, “She has been bitten by wolves. We must be nearing her.”

“Elrond,” Celeborn’s sapphire eyes were dark, “You do not know her as well as I do. She would go on till she died or ended up in the wolf’s belly. She is quite capable of self-destruction.”

“The bond?” Glorfindel queried hopefully, “Any luck?”

“No,” Amroth sighed, “She seems to have lost her mind. There is no resistance. But all that Celeborn can sense are images of the past.”

“Mandos is calling her,” Glorfindel said decisively, “We cannot tarry. She must be found soon.”

Celeborn blanched but did not say anything as he mounted his stallion again and rode after Elrond and Glorfindel. Elrond turned back and opened his mouth to ask what exactly had made her mind snap. Looking at Celeborn’s face, he closed his mouth again. A soft touch to his mind almost made him tumble from his horse.

“Elrond?” Erestor’s voice was concerned, “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” Elrond whispered, “You gave me a shock. We have yet to find her. Wolves have taken down her mare. She seems to be wounded.”

“I hope you find her soon then,” Erestor seemed worried, “We need her even if I don’t profess to have any admiration for her meddling. You take care and do not expose yourself to unnecessary dangers.”

“Glorfindel will keep an eye on me,” Elrond said reassuringly, his mind nearly overflowing with happiness that Erestor was actually worried about him. A loony smile lit his face unsullied even by his current errand in the wild.

 

Thranduil snarled angrily as an orc made a swipe at him, slashing at his horse’s leg. He swung his sword and beheaded the foul creature before continuing with his battle. There were only a few of the orcs, two dozen, he estimated roughly. Not a big problem for his trained warriors. But, these orcs were putting up more resistance than he had expected them to. It was almost as if they were on a mission, Thranduil mused darkly as he continued with his slaughter.

He turned to catch his captain’s eyes. 

“My King?” the warrior enquired anxiously.

“Have two of them captured and in a condition to talk. There is something afoot,” Thranduil muttered, “And I will have it out of them.” 

 

Celebrían walked to and fro within her chambers. She had seen Erestor stand in the courtyard sending and receiving messengers. He seemed worried, so she knew instinctively that her mother was in trouble. She did not like Galadriel, she was close to hating her. But she felt that her father could not survive losing her. 

Thinking of her parents made Celebrían sigh. Their love was complicated, but very deep. Something that she had never felt. Something, she was scared, she might never experience. She watched Erestor walk back from the courtyard, his shoulders slightly slumped. Not good news then.

She thought of Elrond, of a husband noble, caring and understanding, but not prepared to consummate their marriage. What more could she do to convince him? He did not seem jealous when she had trysts with Haldir. Indeed he seemed to be quite happy to see them together. How was she to lure someone into her bed when he did not even desire her? She thought of the past few weeks idly. Then it struck her.

Elrond had been cold with her since Erestor had started supporting her cause. Elrond had become sullen and recklessly rude to her, something that he was rarely. Though he had always apologized, she had not failed to see beneath his mask of nonchalance. He did not wish her to be in Erestor’s company. He had even enquired if she was attracted to his friend.

She smiled happily, if this plan did not work, then she did not know what else would? She was proud of her intelligence right now. Elrond would soon consummate the marriage if she played her cards right. Starting now. She walked to her wardrobe to choose the most striking gown she owned.

 

“My Lady,” Haldir bowed deeply as he took the reins of Anoriel’s horse, “I am proud to welcome you back.”

“Thank you, mellon-nîn,” Anoriel said quietly looking about at the elves gathered in Caras Galadhron, “Is anything amiss here, other than Galadriel’s disappearance?”

Haldir met her eyes unwillingly as he said, “The kingdom is falling apart, Anoriel, I am sorry to say this, but I have no choice. Amroth is but a shadow of what your father was. He finds it difficult to lead our realm. His choices are influenced by that forest maiden,” Haldir bit his lips to prevent a curse falling from them.

Anoriel sighed as she dismounted and made her way to the royal talan. She knew that her brother was a weak leader, but it did not stop the flare of anger that spread through her at Haldir’s words. Hearing a bad opinion of her brother did hurt her, even when the accusations were true.

She entered the Queen’s chambers. Her mother was standing on the balcony, a shawl wrapped around her slender figure. She did not even turn to acknowledge Anoriel.

“I am back, Naneth,” Anoriel approached her.

The Queen of Lothlórien simply nodded, not turning back to look at her daughter.

“Very well,” Anoriel said angrily, “Keep your silence then. But let me tell you, it will not bring back your parents or your husband. They are gone. Now Amroth is going the same way. It is your lack of concern that drives him to Nimrodel each night! His death will be on your hands, Naneth. I do not care that you were not sharing in my pain all those years when Amroth was unconscious, Thranduil was on the battlefield and Ada was dead. I do not care that you did not even bless me when I left with Thranduil as his mate. I do not care what you do with your worthless life, Naneth, but if my brother is hurt, then you shall have to answer to me.”

“Why have you come?” Eleriel’s voice was hoarse as if unused for a very long time.

“To rule my father’s realm,” Anoriel said determinedly as she turned to the door, “You raised me in secluded confines of this very talan, away from court and the commoners. You made me grow up naïve and unfamiliar to our traditions, dependant on the family for everything. But now, I am no longer what you made me. I am a King’s wife. And a King’s daughter. I will rule Lothlórien until my brother returns.”

Eleriel said softly, “It was for your own good that I did not teach you your heritage.”

“My heritage will not spare me if I choose to ignore it,” Anoriel said dismissively, “I am leaving now. Send for me should you need anything.”

 

Erestor snuffed out the candles on his desk. Elrond was safe, he had made certain. So was Glorfindel. Erestor relaxed slightly, he had been worried for them. He had worked all day and late into the night to sort through the messages from many realms. There was no positive indication of Galadriel’s whereabouts in any of them. He breathed a silent prayer for her safety as he began to untie his heavy, ceremonial robes. 

He was tensed, a bath would relax him. But the absence of his friends made him reluctant to leave his chambers. He missed his regular banter with Glorfindel. Sighing, he made his way to his bed and flopped down. The night was cold, he thought of Gil-Galad, who would hold him tight within his strong embrace on such nights. 

His thoughts drifted to Elrond, he smiled wryly as he recalled Elrond’s sleeping habits. Elrond would start from the farthest side of the bed, and then move closer to Erestor, it was as if a source of body heat pulled him. Erestor thought of the many nights of the Last Alliance when Elrond would drape his legs over Erestor’s body possessively. He had not known then. 

A flare of long suppressed desire spread through Erestor as he tossed about on the bed. This was not permissible, he thought sternly as he willed himself into reverie. Elrond belongs with Celebrían, he reminded himself as he drunk down an entire bottle of Dorwinion. He wanted dreamless sleep. Getting drunk might help, though he had never tried it before. He gulped down the strong liquid forcefully and reached for another bottle of the vintage. 

 

She had waited for him all through the supper. He had not attended. She decided to check on him once before she retired. Taking a plate of the plum pie that he adored, she made for his study. 

She quietly opened the door and entered the chambers. She frowned, the candles were all extinguished. She had never known him to retire so early. Concern and hesitance rose in her. Then she decided to make sure that he was well.

A single torch aided her sight as she crept into the bedchamber. 

He lay on the large bed, his brow frowning in discomfort at some dream. His upper torso was bare and softly glowed in the moonlight. His hair was messy in his restless sleep. The dilated eyes were lighter in reverie. He mumbled something in his sleep as he tossed to the other side. Three empty bottles littered his bed. She frowned, he had drunk himself to sleep.

She softly sat down on the bed and soothed his brow. He stopped mumbling as he instinctively turned to her, throwing a hand over her leg. She tensed and arose to leave. Then she decided on her course. 

She pressed her lips to his wine-flavoured ones. He did not respond immediately that she began fearing that he had regained his senses. But then his lips claimed hers fiercely. Strong hands pushed her down atop him and began caressing her. As she broke apart from the kiss, a flicker of guilt rose, but she suppressed it determinedly. His hands halted as they encountered her breasts. 

“Not him,” he murmured as he tried to focus in vain.

She wondered who was this ‘him’, maybe Gil-Galad. She removed her clothes hastily and threw them aside before clambering atop him again. He was aroused. She mused that if he had remained chaste after the king’s fall, then he would not last long. Determinedly, she yanked down his sleeping trousers and pressed their naked bodies together, kissing him again.

She was surprised when tears glittered in his eyes as he whispered, “Not him. Please don’t. Not him.”

She refused to pay more attention to his murmurings and took him within her, pleasure riding through her blood. She had not enjoyed the comfort of a body since Haldir’s last visit to Imladris nearly a decade before. And the body underneath her was not anything that she had ever experienced. All her lovers had been from her home realm. Galadhrim, archers all, broad-shouldered and long, slender limbs, like her father. 

This body was different. It was taut skin over bones, yet fine muscles rippled underneath the pale skin. His eyes were dilated with drunken, insensible, mad lust. The hands that gripped her waist tightly were the hands of a warrior whose life was not spent on the border patrols, but on the true battlefields. As he began thrusting wildly, she felt fire smoulder within his body making his skin hot to her touch. The raw passion frightened and exhilarated her in the same measure. 

He climaxed within her, a hoarse scream leaving his mouth. She watched a dim awareness dawn in his eyes. He went limp under her as he recognized her. He covered his face with his hands, his entire body convulsing wretchedly.

 

Thranduil clinically cut off the orc’s right hand observing to the second captive orc, “If you really withhold this information I seek, then I am afraid that I might have to kill your friend and get started with you.”

The orc snarled in its black tongue, “You will never defeat the darkness, Elf-King, your realm will be the first to fall.”

“I appreciate the warning,” Thranduil said nonchalantly; as he cut off another limb from his captive, eliciting a harsh scream of pain. He wondered about the fact that elves, orcs and men all seemed to have the same pain.

“I will tell,” the orc growled, “Long drawn and accursed be your end, Elf-King!”

“Excellent,” Thranduil wiped off the black blood of the goblin from his sword on his shoe. 

His captains were staring him rather queasy-faced. They had never seen him resorting to such acts. But he was in a foul mood, he thought angrily, Anoriel’s departure to her brother’s aid left him in a very foul mood.

* * *

Elrond screamed; red hot anger and pain flashing through him. He closed his eyes and fell off his horse limply. He was barely aware of Glorfindel’s shouts for aid or Celeborn’s arms around him helping him sit. 

“What is it, Elrond?” Celeborn’s soft, gentle voice reassured him, but the dull anger within him pierced his heart. 

He said quietly, “I must return, Celeborn,” he took a deep breath and leant against Celeborn a moment, “Glorfindel, stay with our warriors. I must return immediately.”

“What happened, Elrond?” Glorfindel demanded as he squatted before Elrond and placed his hand on Elrond’s hot forehead, “You seem ill.”

“No,” Elrond arose and patted his mare soothingly, “I am well, but I must go back now,” he met Celeborn’s gaze steadily, “I believe I can aid you better from home. Glorfindel,” he nodded quietly. 

The Balrog Slayer’s brow was furrowed as he whispered softly, so that Celeborn could not hear him, “Erestor?”

Elrond nodded silently. A flicker of unease passed through him, Glorfindel had also sensed it.

“Go then, Elrond,” Glorfindel murmured, “I will take charge of our warriors here.”

Elrond did not wait for a second command as he turned his mare and rode back along the pass, his heart thudding loudly within him he tried to reach out to Erestor, but was met by dull resistance. Erestor had not called out for his aid then, Elrond realized, it had been the chief-counsellor’s emotions that had reached him through their one-sided bond. Wondering wildly what had happened, he nudged his mount on. He would not stop until he reached his home.

He was surprised when he met Celebrían riding with an escort in the opposite direction.

“I thought you might wait for us to return,” Elrond hailed her.

“Yes,” Celebrían smiled brightly, “But Anoriel has returned to Lothlórien. I wish to spend some weeks in her company. I am sure that Ada will be glad to see me too.”

“I am happy that Erestor has arranged an escort for you,” Elrond said lightly, though all he wanted was to hear some news of Erestor’s well-being, “He has taken upon my responsibility.”

“Yes,” she laughed as she began to move after her escorts, “He has taken on more of your responsibilities than you have ever realized, Elrond!”

“What?” Elrond raised an eyebrow in bewilderment.

“He is a passionate being,” she shrugged before riding away to catch up with her fellow riders, her merry laughter sounding rather ominous to Elrond’s ears.

He was however pleased that she was leaving. He knew it was rude on his part to think so, still that did not keep him from feeling pleasantly happy. And the fact that she was leaving made him reason that Erestor must be all right. The newly formed friendship between Erestor and Celebrían assured Elrond that his wife would not leave Imladris so happily if something was wrong with Erestor.

He was in such high spirits when he finally reached the courtyard of the mansion that he did not even notice Lindir’s frightened face as the elderly elf came down to meet him.

“My Lord,” Lindir seemed relieved, “I am glad that you are back. I have been so worried.”

“Where is Erestor?” Elrond demanded as he dismounted quickly, “Is he ill?”

“He….My Lord,” Lindir said quietly, “You had best go to him. He has not allowed anyone else entry.”

Elrond nodded and practically flew up the stairs. 

He was almost about to bang on Erestor’s door when Melpomaen came and whispered, “My Lord, he will not let us in. The windows are all barricaded. We heard him throwing things about.”

Elrond said quietly, “Leave us and make sure that the healing halls are ready. He is good at hiding injuries,” he wondered when Erestor had got injured, maybe on the ride home after meeting Thranduil.

Deciding to not take chances, he entered his own chambers and locked the door. Taking his healing kit, he softly opened the door that interconnected their chambers. The study was a shocking scene.

The normally meticulously arranged scrolls were thrown on the floor, bottles of ale and wine lay broken. Elrond carefully picked his way to the next chamber, his heart thudding in fear. 

The large bed was unmade and the sheets were crumpled and partly burnt. On the floor across the bed sat Erestor, his face buried within his hands, so motionless that Elrond rushed to his side and took his wrist to make sure that he was still alive. 

Erestor did not seem to recognize him. The blank, vacant eyes held no awareness. Elrond smelt the stench of ale on Erestor’s harsh breath. He was deeply worried, in all their years of knowing each other, he had never seen Erestor imbibe even a drop of ale. He gently lifted up Erestor’s chin and looked him over for injuries. He was half-relieved when he saw that there were none except for discoloured bruises and something that looked like nail-marks on the wrists. Only sheets were draped on the cold, shivering body shielding it from Elrond’s gaze. 

“What happened?” Elrond asked softly, as he tried to help Erestor up.

“I wish to die,” Erestor said simply. 

The seriousness of his tone made Elrond blanch in pain. He slumped down next to Erestor and took the cold hands in his own silently, his suddenly dry lips refusing to voice his question. Knowing not what else to do, he raised Erestor’s hands to his lips and pressed a kiss on them.

The simple gesture broke down Erestor’s restraint as he began sobbing desperately, drawing his knees to his chest abruptly. Elrond let him cry unrestrainedly soothing their joined hands. His heart constricted with pain and unvoiced fears. In all their years together, he had never seen Erestor so distraught. It broke his will to look upon his love in such a state.

Finally, Erestor seemed to pull himself together with deep, calming breaths. He withdrew his fingers from Elrond’s clasp and swept his hair out of his face. The sheets fell down ever so slightly and Elrond’s wrist brushed against Erestor’s ribs making the chief-counsellor shiver and move away with a jerk.

“What happened?” Elrond asked gently, keeping his distance.

Erestor met his eyes briefly before shifting his gaze to his own knees whispering, “I am a worthless, shallow whore, Elrond. Nothing more. You must see what I am actually; the person you love, that is not what I am really.”

“I will be the judge of that,” Elrond said quietly, “What happened to make you think so foolishly all of a sudden?”

“I…I cannot tell you, Elrond,” Erestor’s eyes were tormented as Maedhros’s had once been, “It is unspeakable, what I have committed.”

“’Bría,” Elrond’s eyes narrowed as Erestor flinched at the very name, “She told me that you had taken on my responsibility and arranged an escort for her. Whatever happened then happened after she left?”

“She said nothing else?” Erestor’s voice was trembling with suppressed anger and at the same time, fear.

“She said you were passionate,” Elrond hastily caught Erestor before he slumped backwards to bang his head against the wall.

“Elrond,” Erestor said quietly after a few moments, his voice calmer though it still shook, “I wish to confess. But I don’t know how to.”

“Whatever you say, it will not lessen my regard for you,” Elrond said confidently, “Whatever you say.”

Erestor’s dark look made Elrond reconsider his words, this was not something simple. The guilt, self-loathing and the endless anguish in Erestor’s eyes made Elrond flinch quietly.

“The fact that you were cuckolded by your wife and one whom you think you love might lessen your regard for me,” Erestor said harshly, meeting Elrond’s gaze as if daring his companion to do something horrible to him.

“You jest!” Elrond laughed, but the torment in Erestor’s eyes made him sit back stunned by the admission. He realized with a dull shock that Erestor was not jesting. 

Tears flowed down Erestor’s face as he averted his gaze whispering, “I have messed up your life yet again, Elrond.”

“Did you call her?” Elrond was clutching desperately at straws. He knew the flash of pain and grief that had shot through him had been involuntary. It had seeped into their bond because the chief-counsellor had been too distraught to shield his mind. Elrond calmed himself. He would hear Erestor out before speaking.

“No,” Erestor murmured, “I do not know…I had retired drunk. Three bottles of Thranduil’s poison. I was worried for you, as weird as that sounds. I could not work, I could not rest. I was in a drunken stupor thinking of Gil…and you…and all that cannot be.”

“She took advantage,” Elrond said coldly as he clenched his fists, “She took advantage of your drunkenness.”

“I,” Erestor shook his head, “I was too drunk. I sobered up when I climaxed, and recognized her. I wanted to let go of life then. To just let go.”

Elrond carefully wrapped his arm around Erestor’s shaking shoulders and prevented the harsh words that he wanted to use to curse his wife. He knew that Erestor could not handle that right now. 

“Elrond,” Erestor’s voice was laced with despair, “Will you let me sail before I wreck your life in entirety?”

“Erestor,” Elrond fought the urge to press a kiss on the sweating brow of his companion, “We have discussed this before. Your oath to Gil, your vow to repair our family’s wrongs, Glorfindel, our prince, there are many reasons why you cannot leave Middle-Earth. You did not bow to wraiths or death. Why should you fear a woman now?”

“Elrond!” Erestor hissed, “What I did, it is not going to be forgotten, or forgiven! By you, or by her or by myself!”

“I have forgiven you, if it means anything at all to you,” Elrond said softly, “She took advantage of your drunken condition. She is in the wrong.”

“I should never have drunk so much,” Erestor said with deep self-loathing, “I got myself deliberately drunk.”

“That is not something I have not done either!” Elrond laughed and was relieved to see Erestor’s face soften, “I have done it many a time, though never alone.”

“I have to apologize to you and to her,” Erestor buried his head in his hands again, “The dishonour I have brought upon myself!”

“Erestor,” Elrond rolled his eyes, “This is nothing! I was racing across the Hithaeglir worried that you had sustained some serious injury.”

“How did you know?” Erestor looked up suspiciously, “She told you anything when you met her?”

“No,” Elrond said gently, “The bond, ‘Restor, I was able to know that you were in deep pain and grief.”

Erestor’s expression fell as he said morosely, “Yet another price you have paid for my existence.”

“Shut up and stop this self-loathing,” Elrond said sternly, “Maedhros had it, Ada would always try to talk him out of it, to no avail. I will not let you go the same way. I will not. If I say that all the price that I have paid is too less for seeing you before my eyes hale and happy, will you believe me?”

“You have never given me cause not to believe you, Elrond,” Erestor said in a low voice, “But the fact remains that I do not deserve your affection.”

“Get up,” Elrond rose to his feet and helped an unresisting Erestor to stand, the sheets fell down revealing Erestor’s bruised naked body.

“I will draw a bath in my chambers,” Elrond said quietly, his body quivering in rage at Celebrían. How dare she leave the half-moon marks of her nails on Erestor’s body? How dare she almost kill Erestor with his guilt for their actions?

They walked to Elrond’s rooms and Elrond sat Erestor upon a comfortable chair near the window before going into the corridor to call for bath water. He supervised the servants and bid them leave after the bath had been drawn in his bathing chamber. As he turned to call Erestor, he smiled sadly. 

Erestor sat on the windowsill, leaning against the wall, his legs drawn up lightly to accommodate his long body. The setting sun’s rays bathed his naked body in a soft light that highlighted his weariness and grief. His eyes were closed in exhaustion and his hair flew gently in the light breeze.

“We have always had an unfortunate connection to sunsets, have we not, Elrond?” he spoke quietly, though he had not yet opened his eyes.

“So it seems,” Elrond walked closer admiring the weary pride that still characterised the other elf.

“Do you not hate them?” Erestor asked in a low voice, “They have heralded nothing but disaster. Thranduil does not watch Anor rise anymore. It reminds him of the days he used to watch it with his father. He had cremated his father during a dawn too. It is too painful.”

“For me,” Elrond said determinedly, “The sunset will always a miracle. I fell in love with sunsets the day I fell in love with you. I don’t regret either.”

Erestor sighed as he opened his eyes and looked at Elrond saying, “All I have left are regrets.”

“You will be all right,” Elrond said breezily as he helped Erestor to the bathing chamber. He wanted to go after Celebrían and claim revenge, but he knew that he needed to be strong, for Erestor’s sake. This self-loathing worried him. He would not let Erestor fall into the fate destined for the house of Kinslayers.

Erestor sighed in weary pleasure as the warm water soothed his body. 

“Shall I help you wash your hair?” Elrond asked quietly.

“No,” Erestor said quietly as he dunked himself, “The water is warm and the pool is big enough. Join me, Elrond, if you will. You must be weary after your ride.”

Elrond was not weary. Energy still seeped through his veins, righteous anger at Celebrían spurring him on. But he was not about to miss a chance like this. He nodded and removed his clothes before slipping in at the opposite side of the tub. He was growing aroused. But he was quite confident that with Erestor’s deep mental torture, the other elf would not notice at all. He settled in comfortably and watched Erestor rinse his hair furiously as if it had done him some great wrong.

“It is going to say goodbye to your scalp,” Elrond remarked amusedly.

Erestor shot him a dark glare before saying, “I feel tainted, Elrond. I know it is stupid of me to think so. I feel as if her scent and her essence still lingers on me,” he sniffed at his hair.

Elrond would have laughed at him if not for the seriousness of the situation. Even then, he was too amused to prevent a grin breaking out on his face. He drew near Erestor, who was now fiercely scrubbing his palms, and took a damp lock of dark hair in his hands and raised it to his nose.

Sniffing experimentally, he said, “I smell only that dwarven ale of Glorfindel’s. I thought that you had far more sense than to drink that. I am surprised that you are not sick.”

“I wanted oblivion,” Erestor muttered, “Not that it worked.”

They left the pool wrapped in warm robes and walked to the study. Elrond smiled at the soft singing of the birds in the gardens. The sun was three-quarters sunken down the horizon. All that he could see was an arch of blazing red. A lone bird began a sweet mating song.

“Can you hear that?” Elrond asked his companion quietly.

Erestor raised an eyebrow as he turned to face Elrond. Another bird began singing in response. Their voices melded into melodious symphony that Elrond could no longer distinguish them separately. 

“The Song of Sunset,” Elrond said simply as he watched the sun sink beneath the horizon.

Erestor’s features broke into a wan smile as he replied, “It is, indeed.”

* * *

Thranduil stared at the sight before him. His captains had shut their eyes with their hands, their bodies quivering with sorrow. The orc that had led the small group of elven warriors there laughed in wicked glee. Thranduil sliced off the creature’s head in white fury. The dismembered head fell with a sickening squish on the pale naked body before bounding away onto the bloodied forest ground. This was the same spot where Isildur had passed away, Thranduil remembered absently as he knelt down and unclasped his cloak. 

He spread it over the body and commanded his troops, “This stays within our ranks. Ride back and alert Lord Thalion. I will take her on my mare.”

They obeyed hastily. None of them seemed willing to even help him lift the torn, mutilated body onto his horse. 

He mounted and rode hastily for the fortress whispering, “Hold on. I will not let you die.” 

 

Thalion was waiting with a frown on his features as Thranduil rode into the keep, steadying a burden on his exhausted mare. The healer quickly hurried to Thranduil’s side and helped him lift down the body wrapped in the cloak. Blood sullied the king’s armour and the mare’s back.

“What happened?” Thalion enquired as he carried his charge to the healing halls, “One of your soldiers?”

“You might be surprised,” Thranduil said grimly as he seated himself on a couch while Thalion placed the faintly breathing body on the bed and took off the cloak. 

The healer gasped as he recognized the identity of the elf, “Elbereth!”

Thranduil shot him a dark glower before saying, “She is clinging on. Barely.”

Thalion began his examination even as Thranduil started to gently wipe the patient’s body with a warm, wet cloth. The golden tresses were limp and matted by blood, dirt and many other things that Thranduil preferred not to think of. Together they dressed the wounds and turned the elf onto the back before beginning their ministrations anew. The eyelids were blue and black bearing the evidence of many a beating.

“I will bring in the athelas,” Thalion whispered as the figure writhed in the dark dreams haunting her.

Thranduil whispered back, “Tell no one who it is.” Thalion nodded and left hurriedly in search of athelas. 

Thranduil sighed and placed his hand on the cold brow. He closed his eyes and reached for her mind. He did not even meet with a token resistance as he entered her thoughts…dark thoughts.

Cursing aloud, he waited for the pungent herb that might cleanse her of her dreams. He was about to contact Celeborn when he noticed the absence of the wedding band on her ring finger. He frowned, then decided to send word to Anoriel. Thalion returned presently and began burning the athelas, his aged features set in a worried manner.

She arched against the bed and flailed her arms wildly in an attempt to ward off unseen enemies. Thranduil met Thalion’s eyes enquiringly

“She has been bitten by wolves,” Thalion gulped, “But the poison has been offset by orc-medicine; luckily or unluckily. She has suffered much, young lord, her lower body is a mess. And her upper body is not much better off. I do not think we can keep her alive, My King. Elves succumb to death when raped.”

“I will try to keep her alive,” Thranduil said softly, “Until she can decide for herself if she wishes to live or pass into Mandos.”

“Should we not send word to Lothlórien?” Thalion enquired as he watched the patient settle into a more peaceful slumber under the influence of the herbal leaves.

“No,” Thranduil said firmly, “Not unless we know the exact scenario. For now, I will inform Anoriel.”

“You let her go,” Thalion smiled, “I was so proud of you.”

“I will never give you a reason not to be proud of me,” Thranduil whispered softly as he stared at his father’s portrait that hung on the walls of the healing chamber.

Thalion said quietly, “He will be proud of you whatever your choices are.”

Thranduil settled himself on a chair by the bedside after Thalion left. He took a scarred, mottled hand in his and began singing softly trying to stave off his own tears at the sight of the desecration before him. They would pay, he vowed bitterly.

Dawn was slow in arriving, he felt. He had spent the entire night on his feet, easing back her body onto the mattress after she tried to rise screaming tormented by dreams and memories. Sighing, he strode to the windows, he did not watch the dawn any more. It reminded him of his father, of happier days of his life. But today he felt the need to watch Anor rise. The absence of his wife and the fears in his heart was suffocating. He smiled as the soft morning wind caressed him.

A low moan of pain drew him back to her bedside. Her eyes were half-open. Insanity and fear still lurked on the edges of the blue ovals. They took in his form uncertainly before fluttering closed again. 

“My Lady,” he asked softly as he leant over her, pressing his fingers against her most grievous wound to make sure that the bleeding had lessened.

Her mind tentatively probed his own, as if trying to question his motives. 

“Tis me, Thranduil,” he said gently, “You are in my palace.”

“Let me leave, please. I will not return to him. I would die in the wild rather,” Galadriel spoke quietly, with the weary determination that characterized her house. Bitter tears of humiliation and pain filled her eyes.

“I have not sent for him as of now,” Thranduil said comfortingly, “Rest now. You need to recover your strength.”

“What for?” She asked mockingly, “To show him that this is what my despair has driven me to?”

“Will you hear me out?” Thranduil asked gently, reaching out a tentative hand to stroke her discoloured brow, “I will try to explain what I know.”

She flinched at his touch, but then relaxed into it subtly. He took it as a sign of assent and started to speak, “Amroth has called Anoriel to Lothlórien to rule in his stead. The king and Celeborn lead patrols on the plains to search for you. My captains said that your mare was found, they think that you fell prey to the wolves. I was on an orc-hunt when one of them led me to you. I brought you here. My healer has succeeded in saving your life. Of course, it is your choice to make now. My heart cries for your injuries and suffering at the hands of those creatures. If I had known I would have killed them in a harsher manner than I did.”

“I know that you have seen the extent to which they made me suffer. I wish to fade,” she took a deep tremulous breath, “I wish to be in Mandos. Not even the fate of my house scares me. I wish to be reunited with my kin, with my uncles, with my cousins, with my brothers. When I saw the wolves,” she faltered, “I was so happy that I would die like my brother did. I could hardly wait for the call to die. I was shocked and frightened by the sudden brew forced down my throat, that repelled the poison in the wolf-bites. There was nothing I could do to prevent all that which ensued at their hands.”

“Why did you not just let go of everything?” Thranduil asked softly, “That is what we do under such circumstances. I will not fault you for choosing death.”

“My family, Thranduil,” she broke into harsh sobs, “My family! I am their last chance at redemption. To right their wrongs. To at least do enough penitence so that they might one day be reunited in Aman again.”

He did not know what to say, but he understood her. He was doing the same. He was ruling a falling realm to keep his word to his father. His father led his kingdom into a folly of an assault based on Isildur’s insult to his son. It was Thranduil’s vow before the burning pyre of his father’s body. He would save his realm whatever the cost.

“I will live, Thranduil,” a broken voice brought him out of his musings, “With whatever is left to me, I will live.”

“There is much you have left to you,” he said quietly, “I cannot say that you have lost nothing. But there is still love and peace, I promise you.”

“And where will I find it?” she laughed wearily, “Love is not meant for the children of Finwë. The doom of Miriel, his wife lies upon us all! My husband has spurned me. My child has disowned me.”

“You will find it in me,” he said steadfastly, “The love of a son. I cannot answer for Celeborn or your child. But have my love if you will. I asked you to stand in my mother’s stead at my betrothal. I hold to it.”

“I am not worthy of that,” she closed her eyes exhaustedly, “But I will beg your hospitality and generosity till I am well enough to travel.”

“You are staying here until you are healed and in better spirits,” he said sternly. They looked to the door as Thalion entered with a large tray of fresh bandages and herbs.

“Ah! Our patient has awoken,” the healer smiled, though his concerned eyes were roving over the limp form on the bed.

“Thanks to you,” Thranduil said lightly as he stretched his limbs and rose to his feet languidly, “I will take a couple of hours’ sleep and be back, my friend. See that she lacks for nothing.” He bent to press a reassuring kiss to Galadriel’s brow. 

“Begone,” Thalion shooed him away with a poorly hidden adoring look, “What sort of king are you? Dirty, stinking and yawning! Public disgrace to the kingdom.”

“The best sort,” Thranduil muttered as he left.

Thalion turned to face his patient. Galadriel looked scared and vulnerable so unlike her usual tranquil image. He smiled warmly at her, she nodded stiffly.

“Which of your wounds hurt the most today?” he asked briskly as he leant over her body and began changing the bandages with the experience of millennia.

“The ones on my chest,” she said biting her lips in pain, “I suppose the ribs must be crushed. And my right knee.”

“Six ribs crushed, right knee cap broken, jaw slightly dislocated, two black eyes and one popped-out shoulder,” Thalion summed up.

“I will not be needing a mirror anytime soon then,” she closed her eyes as he began applying the soothing cold balm on her bruises.

“As vain as our prince, are we?” Thalion chuckled, “No, my lady, you will not be able to stand the sight in a mirror any time soon.”

“It is all right, I don’t have to impress anyone here,” she managed to gasp as the pain shot through her at his relentless prodding.

“I am sorry,” he apologized, “I had to determine the state of healing. No, I am too old and Thranduil is fully in love with his wife. You don’t have anyone to impress, I am afraid.”

She smiled wanly at his attempts to cheer her up. A clamour in the courtyard interrupted their examination. 

Thalion moved to the window and turned to face her observing, “Your husband. I fear that you might have to make an impression after all.”

“I will not see him,” she said calmly, “If he insists, I will leave my body and die.”

“I told him not to marry one of your house. He was most stubborn,” Thalion shrugged sardonically, “Don’t worry though. King Thranduil will see to it.”

Thranduil dressed himself in his official robes before striding to the courtyard to receive his guests. He pondered as to what exactly he would say to appease Celeborn. He was not above lying. Still, he did not fancy being on the receiving end of the Silver Tree’s wrath when his lie would be called. He tried to reach out to Erestor. But he felt pain and grief, he sighed, Elrond must have done something to tip the fine balances.

“Young lord,” Celeborn dismounted and strode up the steps to hug Thranduil affectionately, “Are you well?”

“As well as I can be without her,” Thranduil shot a mock glower at Amroth, who looked rather repentant, “What news of the search?”

“Glorfindel and Gildor leads the search in the vale of the river,” Amroth said quietly, “Thranduil, I am sorry, but I need my sister to lead the realm,” his face shadowed, “I need some time away from the throne to find my will again.”

“She is your sister and the princess of Lothlórien. Being my bonded-mate does not make her stop being what she was, what she is still,” Thranduil smiled warmly, “I will miss her, Amroth, but I will not stand between her and her duties. And you deserve some time to yourself.”

“Thank you,” the young king of Lothlórien sighed as he followed Thranduil’s chief-counsellor into the fortress, “But I fear that I am not even half as good as you are as a king.”

Thranduil smiled before facing Celeborn who murmured, “She is here.”

“Yes,” Thranduil replied quietly, he was secretly relieved, he would not have to lie, “I found her half-dead, wounded and nearly insane on the southern borders.”

Celeborn said softly, “I know you will do the best for her. Is she much injured? I will not ask to see her, I know she will not wish it.”

“As you say,” Thranduil said with a deep sigh, “She is much distraught. Will you not end this relentless quarrel? She needs you.”

“Well, I will not!” Celeborn said in a low growl, “Thranduil, you have not seen ‘Bría’s plight in Imladris caught between those scum. Elrond deserves to be killed!”

“I will not attempt to defend anyone,” Thranduil shrugged as he led Celeborn inside, “Frankly, the grief is on everyone’s side, though I must accept that the blame lies on only a few.”

Celeborn scowled but accepted Thranduil’s offer of refreshments. They had been hard on her trail for days. He sighed as he dried his hair after a long bath, he should have known that she would make for Greenwood. For all her professed reluctance of the Sindar, she loved them above her own warlike race. He mulled his options as he readied himself for dining at the royal table. Galadriel was in a worse condition than Thranduil let on; he felt that through their faint bond. If she was faring better, he would have felt nothing. She would then have repelled him, he smiled wryly. 

“How is your attempt to produce a heir going on?” Celeborn asked Thranduil as they began their repast, “I met Anoriel on the way here. She showed no signs of pregnancy.”

“That is because she is not pregnant,” Thranduil laughed, “Celeborn, we are trying hard. We will succeed soon, have no worries.”

“Indeed,” Celeborn laughed amusedly, his worries slightly dissipated by the young king’s conversation, “I admit that I am not exactly looking forward to be introduced to another in your mould and with Anoriel’s wiles!”

Amroth commented, “She is the most head strong of all I have met.”

“That she is,” Thalion murmured as he entered and took a seat next to Celeborn, “She has our wild prince eating out of her hands.”

“Thalion!” Thranduil hissed in a scandalized voice, “I must beg you to be more polite in company! Correction : I do not eat out of anyone’s hands!”

“Come, Ernil-nîn!” Celeborn laughed, “Whatever happened to the wild spirit who tripped me during that romantic dance?”

“I thought you never dance,” Amroth said disbelievingly.

“He does,” Thranduil muttered darkly, “In many ways.” Celeborn narrowed his sapphire blue eyes suspiciously as he glanced at Thranduil. 

Amroth asked innocently, “What do you mean?”

“Amroth, my dear kinsman,” Thranduil smirked ignoring the warning that Celeborn shot him, “I refer not to the ballroom dancing but to a style more horizontal, if you get the drift. Celeborn can dance extremely well, or at least he could a few centuries ago while I was in your realm. I do not know if he is in touch with those skills now.”

“Young lord!” It was Thalion’s turn to sound scandalized, “You really should not insult your kin so!”

Celeborn had buried his head in his hands, his cheeks mottled by red spots of embarrassment. Amroth stared from one to other of his table-mates until it finally struck him. 

“My Lord, surely you did not!” he whispered hoarsely, his eyes wide with shock.

Celeborn groaned in reply though that sound was drowned by the laughter of Thranduil Oropherion. Thalion spared him a glance of deep sympathy before doubling up in laughter, his deeper sound blending with the melodious sound of the king’s mirth. Celeborn felt a grin tug on his lips as he saw Amroth’s thoroughly baffled expression across him.

 

Celeborn paced restlessly within his assigned chambers. Groaning in defeat, he wrapped a robe on himself and walked out softly. He was quite familiar with the ways and corridors of this fortress. He determinedly walked to the door and opened it softly. 

In the harsh, cold light of the moon, lay his wife of millennia. He walked softly, his bare feet making no sound on the cold flagstones. She was breathing harshly. Her body was covered by blankets leaving exposed only one arm folded over her heart and her face. It sickened him to look upon that familiar face discoloured by bruises, scabs and claw marks. Her eyes were wide open, even in her sleep, he could see the tormented expression within them. Her lips moved silently, perhaps reliving her ordeal. His gaze drifted to her exposed hand, scarred and mutilated. Suddenly he was glad for the blankets covering the rest of her.

Her breathing quickened and sweat burst upon her brow as she began to writhe under the blankets mumbling something. Celeborn felt tenderness creep within him. He hated her, or so he tried to convince himself. But he did not how to explain why his hand moved to soothe her hair. 

She relaxed under his touch and whispered in her drugged dream, “I cannot see him again…not anymore. Love him… Even when he spurns me, I love him, Varda! Cannot live without him…”

Celeborn sighed, but continued soothing her hair, the hair that he had loved so much, the hair that held in it once the light of Valinor. He wondered about the depth of their love. 

Could he leave her and choose a new love? He could. He was strong enough and he had his kin who would stand by him. Thranduil would support him unconditionally as Oropher once had. Celeborn realized that he could leave Galadriel without fearing for himself. His love had cooled. He might never love another as he had loved her. But he would live.

However, he feared that Galadriel could never live without him. She had defied her own kin to marry him. She had gone against the edict of her brother Finrod Felagund, who wanted her to marry one of her own royal cousins, maybe Turgon. She had left him to be with Celeborn. She had stood by him throughout the sacking of Doriath. At the end, as the Fëanorians had prepared to leave, Maedhros had asked her to accompany them. He wished to bring her to the safety of Gil-Galad’s realm in Lindon. Her kin had loved her. But she had chosen Celeborn over them always. Now, Celeborn mused, she had no more kin left. Her nephew, the last of her protectors, the high-king Gil-Galad had perished in the battle. She was alone.

“I will live,” a hoarse whisper stopped his meandering thoughts.

“You are awake?” he asked quietly as he met her steady gaze, “I have been riding on your trail for weeks now. It was folly, My Lady, to act as you did.”

She said simply, “Leave me, Celeborn. I can live without you.” She averted her head biting her lips to halt the gasp of pain that shot through her at the movement. 

He pursed his lips, her pride. The pride of the house of Finwë would ever be their downfall, he thought darkly as he withdrew his hand from her hair and walked away through the door. He paused once on the landing, and then shook his head. He would not turn back. Always he had given in to her will. He would, even now, if not for his daughter. He left.

A sob escaped her lips as his footsteps receded in the corridors. She had commanded him to leave her. And he had given in. But how a part of her wished that he had not.

* * *

Celeborn left the fortress with Amroth and his warriors as soon as Glorfindel and Gildor joined them, tarrying only for breakfast. He did not visit his wife again before his departure. 

Glorfindel asked Thranduil as they bid the Lothlórien contingent goodbye, “What is the reason behind the latest quarrel of theirs?”

Thranduil muttered, “Only they know. I don’t know which of the two is more foolish. The only thing that surprises me is that their marriage has lasted as long as it has.”

Gildor joined the two friends saying, “I had just finished speaking with her regarding Elrond and Erestor. She went to fetch her husband. And ended up riding away from Lothlórien alone, screaming and raving. The most unpleasant sight I have ever looked on!”

“How are they?” Thranduil glanced at Glorfindel as Gildor went inside the fortress leaving them alone in the courtyard, “I have been worried.”

“Erestor is not all right, I feel,” the Balrog Slayer mumbled, “I do not know what exactly has happened. But I felt something wrong. I cannot imagine what is going to be the end of this, Ernil-nîn, I am afraid for them.”

“He finally returns Elrond’s love,” Thranduil closed his eyes, relaxing in the cold wind that blew through the glade, “I fear, mellon-nîn; that this will not end well. But,” he leant over to press a chaste kiss on Glorfindel’s shoulder, “We will be there for them, Glorfindel.”

“Let us hope that what solace we can give them will be enough,” Glorfindel leant back into Thranduil instinctively, “The passion that burns in them, it scares me. They are both too stubborn to give up their love. It will destroy many hearts, starting with ‘Bría’s. What if they end up with the wrath of the Valar upon them? They know the peril, but they have both been abstinent since the day Gildor came to Imladris. It will not take much to ignite their passion. ”

“See to your own heart, my dear friend,” Thranduil said quietly, “We cannot face these times without love.”

“My own heart is broken and stays with Menelwen in the Havens,” Glorfindel said softly, “There is nothing to repair or renew there. I hate myself for being so foolish then. I hate myself each day, every moment.”

“Glorfindel,” Thranduil said quietly, as he came around the Balrog Slayer so that they were face to face, “You, of all people, deserve much better than a broken heart.”

“Yet that is what the Valar has given me and I shall make the best of it,” Glorfindel smiled wryly, “I no longer care to pray, my prince, they never listen. I will no longer give them the satisfaction of my tears.”

Thranduil was too stunned to reply. The Balrog Slayer just patted his shoulder and entered the fortress leaving him alone in the courtyard. Thranduil took a deep breath. Though he was much grieved by wars and loss, he still felt that he was not on the point of blasphemy. He felt the fresh air inviting him for a ride. He looked longingly at his captains riding out on patrol before shrugging and entering the castle. He was a king, tied to his duty and his people.

“Ada,” he whispered as he paused in the main hall looking upon Oropher’s portrait, “For you alone.”

 

 

Elrond knocked on Erestor’s door impatiently. They had retired early the previous night to their separate chambers. He would have stayed with Erestor to keep an eye on him, but the chief-counsellor seemed eager for privacy.

“Don’t break the door, mellon-nîn,” Erestor’s voice called, “I come.”

Elrond shifted from one leg to another huffing with impatience before the door opened and Erestor emerged looking distinctly ill-rested. 

Elrond narrowed his eyes, but Erestor muttered, “Spare me your healer’s comments so early in the morning.”

Elrond shrugged as he linked his arm through Erestor’s saying, “As you command, but I am not letting you work this day. That is final and unarguable.”

Erestor opened his mouth to argue, but Elrond said quickly, “I am also taking a reprieve today. I have had the kitchen prepare us a picnic. We will spend the day outside, it has been too long. They will bring us the repast on the cove near the Bruinen.”

“The last time we had a picnic in Imladris was when you arrived after your betrothal, I remember,” Erestor said reminiscently, “I am not opposed to the idea. Anyway I am not in a mood to get any work done. But we must receive the messengers. There has been no news of Galadriel.”

“Gildor sent a rider at dawn. I did not wish to call you so early in the day,” Elrond said reassuringly, “He said the witch is safe.”

“Witch?” Erestor managed to sound disapproving though his lips were breaking into a reluctant smirk, “She is your kin, Elrond!”

“That does not stop her being a witch,” Elrond responded, “And a nasty one at that.”

Erestor said in a voice shaking with silent mirth, “Don’t let Celeborn hear that. He will rip you into two.”

“Yes,” Elrond sighed with mock distress, “I do wonder why they quarrel so, yet they cannot stand to hear each other’s name cursed by others. That is a difficult love.”

“More so than ours?” Erestor’s tone was a whisper as if he was speaking to himself. But he felt the stiffening of the hand linked through his own indicating that his words had been heard by Elrond, “Forgive me, I was merely relieved that she is safe and not concentrating on our conversation.”

“It is time we stopped this evading dance, Erestor,” Elrond faced him, they were standing in the sickly fragrant rose gardens, “I have made my part clear.”

“I cannot make my part clear, Elrond,” Erestor’s face was composed though his hands shook slightly, “Not without damning us both.”

“Finwë did marry Indis. He was not thrown out of Valinor!” Elrond shouted.

He bit his lips in anger as he turned to face the roses. They reminded him of Celebrían, shooting a spurt of fury through him again. When he got to Lothlórien, which he would as soon as Erestor was in a better condition to be left alone, he would definitely make her know the full extent of his wrath.

“The Valar understood the depth of his mistake after the exile of our people,” Erestor murmured quietly, “And made the rule and pronounced the doom of Finwë.”

“Glorfindel did love Aldor even when his heart was always your sister’s!” Elrond argued fiercely.

“He was not bonded to my sister, Elrond, you know that!” Erestor said bitterly, “Nor was he bonded to the human. Unfortunately the situation we are in is different. I am bound to Gil by our vows,” Elrond flinched, “You are bound to me in blood, mind and body.”

“If Gil-Galad and I stand before you,” Elrond asked venomously, not taking account of Erestor’s sudden pallor, “Whom would you choose?”

“You are wounding me more than you realize, Elrond,” Erestor flinched before turning away from Elrond’s unrelenting gaze.

“Tell me,” Elrond commanded in an unsteady voice, “I deserve the truth, at least that.”

“I find that I love you more than I ever loved him,” Erestor whispered, “And I hate myself for that.”

“Our house is cursed for the Kinslayings, the oaths and the what-nots,” Elrond clenched Erestor’s shivering shoulders making him turn around, “What difference would one more mistake make to our dooms?”

“I do not know, Elrond,” Erestor closed his eyes firmly and continued in a calmer tone, “But I will not allow you to choose such a fate.”

“You do not have to. My choice is my own to take and my heart was mine to give. And I have made my choice,” Elrond said quietly, holding Erestor’s dark eyes prisoners with his powerful gaze, “If you choose to tread this path, I will willingly walk with you.”

“LORD ERESTOR,” Melpomaen shouted as he barged into the gardens carrying a scroll, “A missive from King Thranduil.”

“I come,” Erestor stepped back from Elrond’s hold and turned to walk back towards the house, his gait rather forced. 

Elrond felt like screaming at the heavens for all the injustices dealt out to them. But, he scowled, that would not mend anything.

“Elbereth,” he whispered defiantly, “I have long prayed for Ada Maglor’s salvation. Now I find that to pray to the cold hearts of the Valar is most futile. Was Fëanor right to defy Manwe? I am convinced he was. For the Valar delight in torturing our house.”

He could almost hear the mocking words of Maedhros after Maglor had taught a young pair of twins the names of the Valar.

“Are they so pure hearted that they never sin?” Elros had asked.

Maglor met Maedhros’s steady gaze before murmuring, “It is said so, Elros. But nothing is pure except for Eru Iluvatar, according to what was taught by the wisest.”

“Why do you smile, Lord Maedhros?” Elrond had asked.

“Nothing, young lord,” Maedhros had laughed, “That my brother who believes that the Valar are the most tainted of all of the creations should teach you to revere them, I find it amusing.”

“Don’t you believe in their purity?” Elrond had asked astounded.

“I stopped believing in the goodness of the Valar a long time ago,” Maglor whispered as he ended the lesson abruptly.

Elrond sighed, the Valar were not going to answer the prayers of his house. He would do better to accept the fact and stop praying.

 

 

“Better?” Thranduil asked as he entered the room. Galadriel sat up on the bed, her eyes more clear than they had been during his last visit. Her wounds were fast healing. The bruises had almost faded and her hair had regained some of its former lustre.

“I guess so,” she said smiling at his apprising gaze, “When will you let me out of this room?”

“I like holding beautiful, old elves prisoners,” he shrugged as he came nearer and inspected the bandages, “I will ask Thalion to remove these. But I cannot give you much hope. He is the Lord of the healing halls and I have no say here.”

She took in a deep breath of his scent and murmured, “The binding of the forest to your soul is growing stronger. I don’t like it.”

“You would not be here alive without that bond,” he reminded her, “It is extremely useful usually.”

“But it will drain you,” she remarked, “As it drained Melian. She nearly lost her mind towards the end, the girdle was draining her soul.”

“I assure you that I am stronger than any Maia,” he laughed lightly, “I have a bigger ego. Now let us talk of more important concerns.”

“I will leave you as soon as I can,” she mumbled, “I will go to the Havens and seek refuge with Círdan. He has ever been the friend of Noldor.”

“You are not leaving anywhere until the winter is over,” he said firmly, “Meanwhile, I want you to be ready to grace my table from this evening.”

“I am not ready to meet company, especially those who will want to know of my reasons for that rash departure from Amroth’s lands,” she sighed, “But if you wish so, I will come down.”

“Please, I do wish it. Anyway the only company will be Thalion and I. I am yet to build a larger dining table,” Thranduil smiled, “For today however, I will ask the repast to be brought here. You seem yet weak to go down.”

“Thranduil,” she whispered, “The ring. I left it with Eleriel.”

“I did not ask you of it, I would never have asked,” he sighed, “Rings, I have never approved of them. But as long as the one ring exists, the elven rings are a necessary evil, I admit.”

“Will you hear a confession?” she smiled nervously as she leant back onto the head of the bed.

“Certainly,” he laughed, “But I may be unpredictable after hearing it. I am not a forgiving soul.”

“I tried to marry ‘Bría to you,” she shrugged sadly, “When it became clear that Elrond was not going to honour the alliance. The length of plotting I resorted to!”

“Well,” Thranduil smirked, “That would have been a day to remember! I would not have given up Anoriel for anything. And Elrond would never have given up his love. So your plotting would have been in vain anyway.”

“I am selfish, Thranduil,” she closed her eyes, “I made this alliance happen by resorting to whatever means. Not merely because I wanted the line of Finwë to continue, but also because I wanted to save them all. Ereinion, son of my cousin, Fingon and Elrond, Turgon’s descendant and Erestor, my cousin Maglor’s son. I wanted them to escape the doom of Finwë, Miriel and Indis. In the end it mattered not. What is fated will happen. The more fool I was to attempt to change the course of fate.” 

“We try to protect those whom we love. When they are gone, we try to protect what they loved,” Galadriel whispered as she met Thranduil’s pitying gaze, “All those whom I loved, they are in Mandos. Now I remain like a withered tree in the unending winter of time.”

“Why did you leave your father’s home? I have heard that he returned to Aman and sought forgiveness from the Valar,” he asked curiously as he sat by the bedside, leaning languidly on one of the bedposts. 

“My father was a coward,” she said viciously, “That he went back to grovel at the feet of the unfeeling Valar who were the cause of the entire trouble proves this.”

“I don’t profess to understand you. All I know is what my tutor told me of this story. It was merely a story to me,” Thranduil said apologetically, “I have never heard the tale by those who actually lived through it.”

“What is there to say?” Galadriel said with a deep sigh, “My uncle Fëanor was an elf envied by most, including the Valar themselves. He was said to be the finest of Eru’s creations and rightly so. But his failing, if one could call it such, was his love for his father. Whatever the spats our family had, and let me tell you, we had many; it never tarnished our love of each other. I grew up with my cousins and my brother Finrod. Well, those were blissful days. Then the Silmarils were made. My father brewed the trouble between my uncles. They were both too proud to actually seek out the truth. One thing led to the other and Fëanor was banned. My grandfather went with him. Then on the day of the great feast, Morgoth attacked Formenos and killed Finwë. Fëanor was nearly mad with grief. The oath followed. Of all his sons, Maedhros and Maglor were reluctant, but their loyalty drove them on. Uncle Fingolfin followed. Fingon would never be separated from Maedhros. Nor could Aredhel from Celegorm. I had to follow Aredhel. My brother Finrod loved Maedhros and Maglor dearly. In the end all of us stood together against the Valar, against the rules and against Morgoth. And none of us regretted it even if we grieved for all we were forced to do.”

“Your house is the bravest family of all the Eldar,” Thranduil smiled as he took her marred hand and pressed a gentle kiss to it, “I don’t have any blood brothers or cousins. But I would do the same for Elrond or Erestor.”

“I know,” she said bitterly, “But I wish that you are never under the curse of the Valar as we seem to be. I hate them all. Are they worthy of our worship if all they do is to harm us and make us grieve endlessly?”

* * *

“Anoriel!” Celebrían laughed as she embraced her dear friend whom she had not seen for two decades.

“It is good to see you,” Anoriel smiled as she led her friend into the royal talan, “I had expected you to tarry on the road with Haldir.”

“I am yet to see Haldir,” Celebrían admitted, “I heard from his brother that he is waiting to escort Amroth and Ada to Caras Galadhron.”

“You do not seem as if you had been thinking of him all through the ordeals in Imladris,” Anoriel said quizzically as they plopped down onto a comfortable couch, “Well, tell me all.”

“The valley is beautiful, though it doesn’t have the serenity of our land,” Celebrían said honestly, “And the elves are kinder to strangers than the Galadhrim.”

“What of my kin Elrond?” Anoriel demanded eagerly, “And Erestor? I find them both uncommonly handsome and noble!”

Celebrían’s smile faltered as she said, “They are well enough. What news of my mother?”

“She stays in Greenwood with Thranduil,” Anoriel snorted, “Valar knows of what they argued about this time.”

“It is nigh impossible to be wedded to Naneth,” Celebrían shrugged, “She is too mysterious and plotting.”

“This time,” Anoriel said quietly, watching Celebrían’s face for a reaction, “This time their quarrel is deep. I don’t think it can be easily mended.”

“That is excellent,” Celebrían said coolly, “My father deserves better.”

”What news from the Greenwood? I heard that you have been trying hard to beget an elfling,” Celebrían asked curiously, “What with Thranduil’s vigour and your enthusiasm, that cannot be a great task.”

“No,” Anoriel sighed dreamily, “I cannot imagine the reason. Perhaps we have been trying too hard!”

 

 

Celeborn entered his talan wearily and flopped himself down on the couch. Galadriel’s face had haunted all the way home.

“Ada!” Celebrían bounded into the room and threw herself onto him with child-like enthusiasm.

Celeborn pushed away his guilt for her suffering and quietly encircled her with his arms. As he cherished the indescribable joy of holding his daughter once more, something pricked his mind. He pushed her up and sat frowning.

“Ada?” Celebrían asked concernedly, “Are you ill?”

Celeborn shook his head and placed his right hand on her stomach. He closed his eyes and tried to discern. 

“You carry life, my child,” Celeborn opened his eyes stunned.

She seemed as shocked as he was and placed her hand over his own wonderingly, her blue eyes wide with disbelief. Their gazes met and he reached out to sooth her cheek tenderly.

“I feel so happy for you,” he said finally. 

He did not want to know how she had managed to lie with Elrond and consummate their wedding. He was just glad that her ordeal would end. She would birth the child and then raise him or her until the child was old enough to be sent to Elrond. That would be the ending of this ridiculous alliance.

He was thrown out of his musings when a liquid something fell onto his hand nestled against her stomach. He looked up in shock as she cried silently.

Pulling her to his chest, as he had done many a time while she was younger, he asked softly, “What is it, ‘Bría? Was he cruel?”

“No,” she shuddered, “I was merely overcome by the news, Ada.”

“Will you send the message to my husband?” Celebrían asked after a short while, “I am sorry, Ada, but I don’t wish to write to him.”

“I understand,” Celeborn nodded, “You are brave woman, ‘Bría. And I am proud of you so much.”

“I wish I could believe you,” Celebrían mumbled as she nestled her head more comfortably against her father’s chest.

 

 

Celeborn asked Haldir, “Would you have a message sent to Imladris by the fastest rider? It is urgent.”

“Certainly, My Lord Celeborn,” the marchwarden said unemotionally, “I will send Rumil, for he is the fastest.”

Celeborn flinched slightly at the mention of his young lover’s name. He had expected their trysting to be secret to all except his wife who had unintentionally walked in on them that fateful morning. How had Haldir known?

The marchwarden smiled sardonically as if privy to Celeborn’s worried thoughts and said, “My brother is my brother. I keep an eye out for him though he is of an age to make his decisions however I find them not to my own tastes. To each his own,” Haldir shrugged, “Shall I send him?”

Celeborn thought, he did not want to flaunt his lover before his daughter. Celebrían might not mind it, indeed she might even encourage his amorous indiscretion. But Anoriel was present. He knew that the elven princess was as wise as Elrond despite her wild disposition. He did not want her to know this.

“Please,” Celeborn said courteously, “Do send young Rumil.”

 

 

Haldir said gently, “He is a married lord, with a pregnant daughter. He cannot afford to make your affair public, brother. He means no insult, I am sure.”

Rumil said harshly, his fair face contorted in rage, “He did not say so while whispering all those promises of love when he claimed me again and again!”

“You know as well as I that he is bound well and true to his wife,” Haldir took a deep breath to calm himself, “Why ever would you believe him?”

“Because he was sounding sincere. He promised that his marriage was over, that their bonds were fading. They have been apart for a decade of war and then two decades after that. They were not even talking to each other,” the younger elf was pleading, “How would I ever doubt him?”

“You harbour anything more than mere lust and the love of a comrade?” Haldir asked uneasily, his eyes holding his brother’s.

The sudden expression of vulnerability and indecision that flashed on Rumil’s features made him cringe. 

He said unsteadily, “It is better you stay away from our lands for a few weeks. Prepare to leave for Imladris, brother.”

 

 

“Brother,” Anoriel smiled lovingly as Amroth entered her balcony and kissed her cheeks. He looked her over for real and imaginary hurts, a practice from the younger years when he had been the protective elder brother of a much cared-for girl.

“I am well,” Anoriel embraced him tightly, “And you?”

“Well enough, young lord,” Amroth sighed, “I saw your husband brood like a raincloud in his keep. Maybe you should return to him.”

“I came to help you,” Anoriel said steadily, “Thranduil understands. You will relax and try to find joy in living.”

Amroth nodded shakily and whispered, “I am afraid that I may never find cause for joy again. She demands harsh choices.”

“I heard of that,” Anoriel sighed, “What is love if it cannot give in?”

“I don’t profess to know. Not everyone can love uncomplicatedly. But in my case, I would give her everything, yet she asks for what I cannot yield. She asks for what is not mine to yield. The crown, our realm, our family, how can I leave all that behind?” he murmured sorrowfully, “I am caught between the chains of duty and love.”

“I do not condemn her for not understanding you. She has no knowledge of duties, her life is carefree. But, you, my dearest brother, you must make a choice. This cannot go on forever,” Anoriel looked up into his eyes.

“What do you mean?” Amroth sighed, “I would choose my duties, but how can I marry another when I love Nimrodel?”

“Once upon a time,” Anoriel said quietly, “In a court of a high-king in Lindon, you told me to be brave to love. You gave me the courage to answer Oropher’s question when he asked me if I loved his son. Each time I see my husband, I think of your support and love you all the more for it. I cannot see you grieving like this.”

“What would you have me do, Anoriel?” Amroth said in a subdued voice, “I cannot choose the one or the other. Who will lead the people if not me?”

“Love finds its own way, as you told me. Thranduil and I waited for centuries in frustration to culminate our love. And we are enriched by it,” Anoriel smiled happily, “Take your chance at love, Amroth. Give it all, and you will receive what it is worth in time.”

“Anoriel, I---”

“Say no more,” Anoriel said firmly, “I will manage the realm with the help of Lord Celeborn. Go to your maiden and try to seek your answers. You will decide then if your love is worth it.”

 

 

Celeborn stared at Rumil’s fading form on horseback. He sighed, now he had temporarily dealt with the problem of his lover. 

“Ada,” Celebrían came and joined him, “How was Naneth when they found her? Anoriel was reluctant to tell me.”

“She was,” Celeborn paused as he shuddered at the image of the mutilated face, “She was in a bad state. Wolf bites, orc wounds and the rest... But Lord Thalion’s skills will mend her quickly.”

“Whatever made her so foolish?” Celebrían frowned, “I thought that she was supposed to be wise.”

Celeborn cringed at his daughter’s barely veiled ironic comment. Celebrían hated Galadriel. That was quite apparent. He wanted her to try to understand her mother more, somehow, before this hate grew into malice. He knew what exactly he had to say to change his daughter’s heart.

“I think that the fact she walked in on me after I was fresh from a coupling made things go the way they went,” he averted his eyes and tried to prevent the heat rising in his cheeks.

“Oh!,” she gasped softly, “I heard rumours that you have a lover,” it was his turn to be shocked, his daughter had known?

“Ada, I will love you even if you have Sauron himself as a lover,” she continued determinedly, “But I can never forgive her for her meddling. She deserves all that she suffered and more!”

“Child, she was in quite a bad state,” Celeborn said uneasily, “I was scared for her life. She may not deserve your forgiveness, but she may deserve your pity. Will you not write to her and call her back?”

“She stays in the keep of one she considered an enemy mere centuries ago, she has no pride left. Noldor, you are better off staying away from them,” her eyes hardened, “They claim to be noble and true, but underneath they are all untamed, cruel fires.”

Celeborn asked warily, “Mean you Elrond?”

“He, as well as the rest,” Celebrían shrugged, “That he is so capable of love unrequited is truly noble. But I cannot understand why I had to plead with him to consummate an alliance that had his willing submission!”

“Do you know who he loves?” Celeborn asked carefully, his face darkening in fear and suspicion.

“No, and I don’t care. I damn them both to the void, for giving me such a bitter cup to sip from! As I damn my mother,” Celebrían said earnestly, her face distraught.

“I understand, my child. When I first met your mother in Doriath, her brother warned me against marrying her. His motives were many and selfish. But he did give one unflawed, cold reason; that those of the house of Finwë were always true in love. Their passions run as deep as the sea. Woe to any who seek to separate them from what they love. ‘Bría, whatever you do, do not provoke the wrath of Elrond by demeaning his love for that elf whoever he or she is. Elrond is wise and noble, but when it comes to the deepest matter of his heart, he can be ruthless,” Celeborn said quietly.

“I hate this,” Celebrían said softly, “I hate this mockery of vows.”

“As do I. Will you forgive me for being a lust-driven maniac who was never there to stand by you?” Celeborn sighed.

“I understand that emotion called lust more than you know,” Celebrían confessed in a whisper.

 

 

Celebrían walked silently in the glade, her gown rustling on the fallen leaves.

“My Lady,” Haldir’s clear voice hailed her familiarly, “How fare you?” 

“Well indeed,” she smiled nervously, she found that she did not desire him as much as she had before knowing Erestor, “What brings you away from the borders?”

“The news that you are going to gift Elrond an heir,” he laughed merrily, “Is that not reason enough?”

Celebrían bowed and said quietly, “Thank you, my friend.”

“So how did you manage to convince him?” Haldir asked curiously, “He was always so keen to invite me and get us into bed together! The weirdest husband I have ever had the honour to meet.”

“He was drunk,” she explained matter-of-factly. He was stunned for a moment before bursting into laughter.

“Truly?” he breathed as he tried to regain his composure.

“Why would I lie?” she rolled her eyes, “Three of the Dorwinion.”

“I am surprised that he was not sick!” Haldir said shocked, “I did not know that he could handle the wine so well.”

“Trust me, nobody is going to appreciate him and I when they know what we have done,” Celebrían muttered as she tried to ease her mind.

* * *

Elrond pursed his lips as Rúmil arrived. He glanced across at Erestor, who was talking with Lindir about some household matter.

“My Lord,” Rúmil bowed, “A message from Lord Celeborn.”

“Indeed,” Elrond snapped, “One has been long overdue.” 

He accepted the scroll and nodded dismissively. He unfurled the scroll absently even as his eyes lingered on Erestor’s handsome features silhouetted by the fire in the hearth as the chief-counsellor explained something to Lindir, his arms moving in fluid gestures in the air, the black silken robes floating gently on his body. Though Erestor was yet to recover from the shock of Celebrían’s treachery , he did accept Elrond’s reasons and had stopped blaming himself. They spent their days together as it had been when they had first come to this refuge. Elrond hungered for more than friendship as his eyes rested on Erestor more and more with each passing day. He knew that his desire at least was returned. Only vows stood between them, invisible walls of cruelty.

Lindir caught Elrond’s gaze and spoke to his companion. Erestor turned and met his eyes with a raised eyebrow. Elrond shrugged and returned to his scroll.

His eyes narrowed, then widened in pure shock.

“Dear Elrond.

I have good news of your wife. She is with child. I congratulate you both on this occasion. According to the Sindarin rules, she must stay with her family until the birth. After the naming ceremony, we shall be escorting her to Imladris. As my wife is not here, we will follow the Sindar conventions and ceremonies. I am sure that you would not grudge me this.  
Celeborn.”

The scroll fell from his shaking hands as he raised his eyes to meet Erestor’s alarmed ones and Lindir’s concerned ones.

“What is it, Elrond?” Erestor came nearer and bent gracefully to pick up the scroll fallen at Elrond’s feet, he began to straighten it, but Elrond snatched it from him.

“Elrond?” Erestor asked worriedly, as he turned to Lindir and motioned him to leave, “What is it?”

Elrond took a deep breath, he had to remain strong for Erestor, he could not let Erestor fall into the tormented depression again. 

“Elrond,” Erestor took the scroll from him firmly, “What is the bad news that you quail so much?”

His face turned ashen in the firelight as he scanned the writing, his hands shook as he raised his gaze to Elrond’s again.

“What have we done?” he whispered shakily, “What have we brought upon ourselves?”

Elrond placed a soothing hand on Erestor’s shoulder trying to find words that could assuage the wound within their hearts.

“Why is it us, Elrond?” Erestor asked, his eyes dark with pain and torment, “Why is it always us?”

“One would think that our house has suffered enough,” Elrond sighed as he stared into the fire, “That we have shed enough tears and blood, what more can we give in penance?”

“Would that I knew, Elrond,” Erestor said in a resigned tone, “It is better to weather it. And the disgrace and the pain that comes along with it.”

“Tears unnumbered ye shall shed”

Elrond felt the curse on their house waiting to strike. They stared at each other, their dark eyes drowned in suppressed emotions long denied. It was no longer a question of their honour or their bonds. It was a mere question of how much they were ready to suffer for what they had dared once. For one night of bliss, they would pay with everything they cherished.

Elrond smiled bitterly as Erestor held open his arms. He moved to complete the embrace and they stood silently in the long hall of fire, their heads resting on each other’s shoulders. 

 

“What shall you reply?” Erestor asked quietly as they moved away from the embrace when footsteps came down the corridor.

“What do you think I should reply?” Elrond asked as they walked outside into the gardens. By silent agreement they made for the still wild peripheral gardens, away from the rosebushes of Celebrían.

“I do not think she would tell her father of the situation. It is too disgraceful from her point of view. I mean, if Celeborn demands an explanation from me and I say the entire truth, she will be in trouble. She will stick to the story that it was you,” Erestor sighed.

“And?” Elrond knew well what he had to do to save them both, but he wished to hear it from Erestor’s lips, “What would you advise me to do?”

“To let me take the blame and then I will raise the child, of course,” Erestor said steadily meeting Elrond’s gaze, “I may have been drunk then, but I will not let any child be neglected because of our careless actions. No elfling deserves to be orphaned when its parents draw breath.”

“Ada told me that once,” Elrond said quietly, “And I believed him. You are his son. I believe you. But would you hear me out?”

“I will not abandon the child, Elrond,” Erestor said firmly, “I cannot. That child should not suffer for our follies.”

“Please, I have a different choice. Let her give birth to the child. We fetch her back if she wishes to return. Else we bring the child. We raise it together. Let the child be known as mine, if you still wish to protect her honour,” Elrond said calmly.

Erestor stopped walking and stared at him astounded.

“What say you?” Elrond turned to face him.

“Would you do that?” Erestor asked quietly, his eyes sparkling with gratitude, “Would you forgive her?”

“I would forgive anyone,” Elrond replied steadily, “For you.”

Erestor shook his head sadly. 

“I will never forget what she did, mellon-nîn, but I will never raise my voice against her in harshness. At least not in this matter. Perhaps she will understand that the purpose of the alliance is over and she may not return to the valley,” Elrond muttered.

“The purpose of the alliance was to unite your line with hers!” Erestor said shocked, “It has yet to be fulfilled.”

“She can go count orcs in Mordor, I am not going to even step within touching distance of her when I can help it!” Elrond said firmly.

“What if you have no choice?” Erestor asked softly, his voice barely a whisper.

“I have already made my choices, Erestor, I made them centuries ago,” Elrond murmured. 

They stared at the cold, beautiful skies. The star that was supposed to be his father’s ship shone brightly, yet it did not brighten Elrond’s heart. It never had. He had always trusted the cold steel of his foster-father to the fake warmth of his mother’s bosom. For a moment he thought of his foster-father. His lips automatically started to move in a prayer, but then he angrily stopped himself. 

Not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountains.

“So it is true,” Elrond said as if to himself.

“What is true?” Erestor asked stirred out of his dark musings.

“That our house shall never be forgiven. Generations of valiant and wise elves have fallen for the cause of defeating evil. Yet we are cursed,” Elrond said bitterly, clenching his hands.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Elrond,” Erestor’s eyes flashed with irritation, “That is nonsense. Sindar lords have also fallen alongside us, as have humans and dwarves. You should really stop brooding about these old tales.”

“You did not learn the past at Ada’s knees,” Elrond said quietly, “I did. I know it is true, as does Galadriel.”

Erestor did not reply, seemingly occupied with straightening the imaginary creases in his robes.

“You know this too, you simply pretend not to notice,” Elrond said as he probed the one-sided bond cautiously. Erestor rallied and shut him out.

“Why did they then come to our aid at Eärendil’s plea?” Erestor argued, his eyes darkening and his face blank, “They forgave us long ago. I will not talk of this again, Elrond. It is simply unnecessary with our current burdens. We do what we have to do today. Let us not worry about the future.”

Elrond nodded and turned away to look up at the stars again. For a few minutes they stood in silence. Then Erestor walked away slowly. Elrond sighed as he heard the sound of footsteps fading.

“Elrond,” Erestor had turned back at the head of the steps leading into the house, their gazes met as Elrond faced him curiously, “Come in, it is late.”

“Go on,” Elrond sighed, “I am not ready to retire yet, I daresay. The night unsettles me.”

Erestor hesitated before saying quietly, “The night unsettles me too. I find that I wish for company.”

“I know,” Elrond walked towards the tall, slender form waiting at the head of the stairs, “You miss Glorfindel and the banter. I am a poor substitute for him. My wit and guile lacks much.”

“I ask no substitute for Glorfindel,” Erestor said calmly, though his eyes betrayed his unease, “I wish for your company.”

Elrond searched the refined features closely, but could discern nothing. He nodded and they walked into the house. Erestor did not speak as he turned into the corridor that was towards their private chambers away from the library and their studies. He paused before his chamber door and looked irresolutely at the well-crafted handle.

“I think I am not myself tonight,” he confessed sincerely as he placed a hand on the door and turned to face Elrond, “Perhaps I should retire.”

Elrond sighed, he was near tearing out his hair in desperation these days. The news from Celeborn had nearly driven him mad with anger at Celebrían. Now, he decided firmly, he was not going to care anymore.

“Would you--?” Elrond began bravely.

“Would you--?” Erestor said at the same time. 

They broke into nervous laughter and then Elrond said, “You first.”

“No,” Erestor hedged with alacrity, “You go first.”

Elrond said sweetly, “You dragged me here from my star watching. You owe me an explanation. You first.”

“I…,” Erestor swallowed and then met Elrond’s eyes courageously, “I don’t wish to be alone tonight. I will take the couch, you can have the bed.”

Elrond thought of negotiating, but then shrugged his assent. This was what he could get at most. He was practical enough to realize these small blessings and to cherish them. They went in and Elrond closed the door behind them. 

Erestor looked at him uncertainly before murmuring, “I will just put on a sleeping robe.” 

He picked a robe from the wardrobe and started walking to the bath chamber to change. Elrond admired the easy grace that characterised the walk. But his face darkened as he thought of those days when Erestor had been happily unaware of his attraction. How many times in Elrond’s presence had he undressed so casually? It was amusing how knowledge could change things.

“I did not that you were such a prude,” Elrond commented as Erestor emerged clad in a thick sleeping robe.

“I am not, under usual circumstances,” Erestor smiled sardonically.

“And what, may I ask, is so unusual about these circumstances?” Elrond asked half-amusedly as Erestor moved about getting two goblets of wine. He handed one to Elrond who declined with a shake of his head.

“Have you ever felt that life moves in circles, leading to the same point again and again?” Erestor asked gesturing with his goblet vaguely.

“Many a time,” Elrond said soberly, “Especially when Glorfindel and you bicker unreasonably. That is the most perfect example of circular living.”

Erestor glared a moment before breaking into a grudging grin as he raised his goblet in silent toast.

“What makes you think of such deep thoughts?” Elrond asked curiously as he went to sit by the bedside.

“I did say earlier,” Erestor shrugged, “I am not myself.”

“That seems rather obvious. I must return to my original query, why do you call the circumstances unusual?” Elrond asked smirking. 

“These circumstances,” Erestor sipped his wine and made a face, his cheeks suddenly flushed, he continued self-depreciatingly, “Are unusual in that I am aroused beyond reason right now.”

Elrond met Erestor’s mirth-filled, yet sincere eyes. This was what he had always loved about Erestor. The chief-counsellor would always speak the bare truth, even if it was humiliating or not advisable under the circumstances. 

“I am honoured,” Elrond smiled, though he felt it rather prudent to not change his ceremonial robes for a sleeping tunic. Even if Erestor claimed to be aroused, Elrond could not see any visible evidence.

“Don’t be,” Erestor slid languidly into a lying position on the long couch, placing his goblet carefully on the side table, “It doesn’t take much to arouse me.”

Elrond snorted and slid under the warm bedcovers as he thought of their one night of passion, spent in the same bed. He shuddered. It did not take much to arouse Erestor, from what he had gleaned from that one night. He did not know when he fell into slumber, but he was sure that Erestor had not yet fallen asleep till then.

* * *

“So?” Thranduil asked impatiently, “When shall we leave?”

“I did not even agree to come with you, Thranduil!” Galadriel said surprised as she looked up from the book she had been reading, “What good will it be to take me to Erebor and to meet dwarves? Go alone and finish your negotiations.”

“I am King,” he shrugged as he easily snuggled onto the couch next to her and threw his head against his arms, “I can order you around.”

She smiled as she pulled his head onto her lap and began twirling the single, austere braid into which his golden hair had been arranged. He reminded her of happier days, when she had a family. They had been so unafraid of the world, of darkness and evil when they had first left the lands of bliss. After all, they were the closest band of cousins on both sides of the sundering sea. What could defeat them?

“So?” Thranduil made himself more comfortable, delving his head deeper against her thigh.

“All right,” she gave in as she put away her book, “Whenever you wish.”

“There is no time like now,” Thranduil said with a happy smile, as he tried to get up. She pushed him back down gently.

“I like holding you,” she said softly as she unravelled his hair, “Why do you bind your hair always? I find it rather warlike when you do so. It makes me uneasy that you do this even when you leave on simple patrols.”

“So said my Ada,” Thranduil said quietly, “I believe that each day without him, I fight a battle to live. The hairstyle is then appropriate, don’t you feel so?”

“I want you to live proudly and to find at least the smallest measure of happiness in all you do, even killing orcs. That is what my family taught me,” she said steadily.

“And you believe in it?” he asked smiling up at her.

“Yes,” she said determinedly, “I do believe in that.”

“Then, My dear lady, why don’t you live by that teaching?” he asked laughing, though his brilliant green eyes were measuring her silently.

Her hand lingered on the still visible scar on her throat and she said quietly, “I no longer have the courage or the will to act on what I believe, Thranduil. When Ereinion died, the last of my courage died with him.”

“But you have pride still,” he remarked gravely, “And that will make up for courage any time.”

“Pride is something that my family has in abundance,” she laughed bitterly, “At least, everybody except my father had that trait.”

“My Lord,” an advisor entered the room and handed Thranduil a scroll, then bowed low before retreating quickly.

“Must be important,” the young King opened it. Galadriel did not reply as she weighed his golden hair in her hands.

“It’s from Amroth,” he sighed, “’Bría is pregnant.”

Galadriel asked shocked, “What, Elrond succumbed so easily? The Valar still pities the Noldor then, or it may be my child’s Sindar blood that gave her the blessing.”

Thranduil muttered darkly, “I am not so sure, My Lady, Elrond is not one to go back on his words or his vows. I would ask Erestor, but I am afraid that he would start that relentless argument with me about my soul’s tie to the forest.”

“I am worried about the bond too,” Galadriel rested her cheek against the soft hair gathered in her hands, “It will drain you.”

“All of us make choices and live with it. I see no other way to protect my borders,” he sighed, “I hope that Amroth makes the right choice. That forest maiden is not worthy of him.”

“Love is rather blind,” Galadriel laughed, “You should know that!”

Thranduil did not reply as he closed his eyes exhaustedly. She pressed a kiss on his circlet of office before removing it gently and placing it carefully on the side-table.

“When did you last think of sleeping?” she asked wearily, she had watched him ride to secure his borders at dawn daily for more than a week. He would always return and then see to the affairs of his castle all night.

“Not in the last couple of days,” he confessed, “Will you sing for me? Please?”

“Honoured to,” she replied as she began to sing an old harvest song that she had learnt from the men her brother had brought with him to Nargothrond one fell winter. She wondered why she had chosen it, but Thranduil smiled drowsily and soon fell into reverie, his hands placed on his chest.

She shivered slightly and removed the hands to his sides, the former position reminded her too much of how they prepared the dead for funerals.

“He is finally resting,” Thalion’s voice had a shade of fondness as he came into the room and looked down upon Thranduil with a soft smile.

“I daresay he has worn himself out,” Galadriel replied, “Shall we wake him and send him to his chambers? This is an uncomfortable position to sleep in.”

Thalion shook his head saying, “Oh, No! He would sleep in Oropher’s lap even if they were on the trees. Rather feline traits, I must say. Though I don’t remember Oropher showing such behaviour in his youth.”

“You have seen me in Doriath, have you not?” Galadriel asked with a searching look, “I was not introduced to the chief-healer, but I had heard of his skills.”

“I was introduced to your brothers,” the old healer smiled as he took a seat across her, “I have seen you many a time. You were quite the beauty, were you not?”

She laughed saying, “Indeed, you are too kind. My brother Finrod was the most handsome of us siblings. And my cousin Aredhel was far more beautiful than I ever had been.”

“I have seen her,” Thalion sighed, “You speak the truth, she was very beautiful.”

“When did you meet her?” she asked curiously, “Aredhel was denied entry to Thingol’s realm and took the roads where she met that dark elf, cursed be his name.”

“I have lived long. And I was said to be the best healer in Middle-Earth by the time you had arrived across the seas,” he said reminiscently, “I was once sent for by a lord of your host. I have seen Mithrim.”

“Melian allowed you to cross her boundaries?” Galadriel asked surprised, “I thought that the important court officials were rarely allowed that liberty.”

“It was a call for a healer, that can never be denied. I have forever grieved that I was able to heal only the body, and not the soul, of this particular elf,” Thalion sighed, “Still, we cannot work above destiny.”

Galadriel’s eyes widened as she realized who the patient might have been, but before she could say anything more, the door opened and a cloaked, stooped figure entered, a thick staff in his hands. Thalion reached for his sword as he stood up to defend his king. Galadriel narrowed her eyes as she tried to discern the power she could feel emanating from the stooped form. 

Thranduil rose silently, his warrior’s instincts waking him and he stood elegantly and asked, “What business have you in the royal chambers, sir?”

The stranger removed his cloak, revealing a wizened face remarkable despite the gnarled features. Blue eyes measured Thranduil carefully before flicking to Galadriel who had also risen to her feet.

“You don’t remember me, Artanis?” the stranger asked in a hoarse, aged voice.

“I feel I know you,” Galadriel replied softly, “But I cannot recall your name. I have never seen you before.”

“You have seen me before,” the stranger laughed, speaking in Quenya, “You have not seen me thus before, daughter of Finarfin.”

“You speak in riddles, sir,” Thranduil said firmly in the same language, “Unless you state your errand, I might be forced to call my guards and have you escorted out.”

“Olórin!” Galadriel said wonderingly as she finally recognized the power within the ugly, aged form, “What happened to you?”

“I was sent to aid your fight,” the wizard replied gravely, “You will need all the aid you can find, Artanis.”

Thranduil bowed respectfully, his green eyes holding the wizard’s steadily, “Welcome to Greenwood, My Lord, but I must ask you, why did the Valar send you in this form?” 

“Young lord,” Thalion muttered in Sindarin, “You must not be so rude!”

“This then is the young scion of Ingwë,” Olórin said approvingly, “Well met, Lord Oropherion. I will answer your question, but then you will wish that you had never asked. Shall I?”

Galadriel looked apprehensive, Thalion resigned, but Thranduil said firmly, “Indeed, My Lord, I do wish to know.”

“The Lord Manwë has forbidden all of the Maiar to help you in this war. But I could not bear the suffering. I pleaded with Elbereth. Manwë agreed under her persuading. But he limited me to this form physically as a punishment for defying his will,” Olórin sighed, “Are you now properly depressed?”

“Of course not,” Thranduil said lightly, though his eyes had darkened in sadness, “I think I shall call you Mithrandir, our grey wanderer; you are a friend of the elves; for the defiance you dared for our sake. Please, My Lord, let me introduce you to my realm’s chief-healer, Thalion.”

“Mithrandir, I shall accept the name,” Olórin nodded, “A new beginning in an old shell, eh, Artanis?”

“I am now called Galadriel. New names in a new land. But Mithrandir, the fact that Manwë refuses to aid us means that he will never forgive the past,” Galadriel said soberly, “What hope do we have then?”

“Was my coming expected?” he asked smiling.

“No,” she replied, “what mean you by that?”

“I mean that many unexpected things may happen. Even the forgiveness of Manwë has a chance of happening someday, Galadriel,” he said gently.

“I have to ask something else,” Thranduil said thoughtfully, “I sense Círdan’s ring on you. Did he give you?”

“Sharp,” Mithrandir conceded with a grudging smile, “And here I was thinking that none in Ingwë’s line has wisdom. You are right, young lord, the ring was given to me by the Lord Círdan on my arrival upon this land. He wished to aid me in this mission. My own powers are greatly limited because of this form.”

“So you rode straight to my realm from the shipyard?” Thranduil raised an interrogating eyebrow, “I am honoured.”

“Actually,” Mithrandir winked at Thalion, “I wished to see Galadriel, old acquaintances. I was told that she was in this realm. You are a proud young sapling, I can see.”

Thranduil bit back a retort and instead said politely, “Then I shall leave you with your old friend, Lord; come, Thalion, let us move.”

 

“You have suffered much,” Mithrandir gently touched the scar on Galadriel’s cheek, “I do grieve for your sorrows.”

“What news of my kin, Mithrandir? I care no longer for myself. It is too late,” she said with a sigh.

“The will of the Valar is this : If those who remain of the house of Finwë defeat Mordor forever, then you may sail back to the lands you left. And your kin shall be released from the void into the halls of waiting,” Mithrandir said gravely, “But Sauron is wiser than even the wisest of us. He learnt sorcery from the mightiest of the Valar. It is, as humans say, a raw deal.”

“Yet it is a deal,” Galadriel said with renewed hope, “I no longer pray or look to the west for aid, Mithrandir. But I will accept this deal. I will win my kin their long deserved freedom even if it claims my soul.”

“You are drained, Galadriel,” Mithrandir said solemnly, “drained of the power of Valinor that once shone in your soul. Círdan, too, has become tired and weak. We no longer have the resources to battle darkness.”

“I will not give up now, Mithrandir, I will win this or I shall die fighting,” she said plainly, “I am all that remains, I will not linger as a burden to this land. You say the truth, we have no strength left in us. But those who were born on these shores, they are more enduring. Lord Celeborn, he is wise and valiant. He will be able to give you counsel for he has been fighting the darkness in Middle-Earth all his existence. The same goes for Lord Elrond of Imladris. Lord Glorfindel of Gondolin, denied Aman, is also in Imladris. And my cousin Maglor’s only son, Lord Erestor, is the chief-counsellor to all the elven Noldor realms. There are mighty left amongst the Noldor, Mithrandir.”

“Galadriel, you may be right. But why did you omit the name of the young, powerful king of this realm, the scion of Ingwë?” Mithrandir’s voice was meaningful.

“He means much to me,” she said sombrely, “In many ways, he is like me. He goes on with this harsh world, only to keep his word to his slaughtered father. Now he is tied to this land. I am worried.”

“Ingwë pleaded with me to send the young elf to Aman. His son has left him, and he is alone and burdened by kingship. Thranduil is all that is left to him,” Mithrandir smiled softly, “And he wants him to sail.”

“His destiny is still tied to Middle-Earth,” Galadriel shuddered, “I wish he was safe in Valinor. But he will not sail, he is bonded to these lands.”

“Do you feel guilt for your actions, Galadriel?” Mithrandir asked softly, “For what your kin did?”

“Of course, I do!” she exclaimed, “But I love them. I may regret the elves killed in the harbours, Sirion, the oaths, the battles and all. But I will never regret following Fëanor. I will never regret those few happy moments in Mithrim after the Great Feast. The greatest regret is not dying alongside my cousins, or my brothers. They fell bravely, even Aredhel.”

“And do you feel guilt for marrying your daughter into a political alliance?” he asked her.

She seemed stunned, but then she gained her composure and said quietly, “No, I do not, Mithrandir. I did what was necessary to ensure that our house was not more cursed.”

“Why, Galadriel, do you remain apart from your husband?” the wizard asked with a knowing smirk, “I would not have expected this from what I had heard of your amazing courtship.”

“Ah, my friend,” Galadriel smiled softly, her eyes averted to the fireplace, “Be glad that you have never married. It is a battle of wills. Usually, one of us surrenders. This time, we are not abiding by our own silent rules.”

Mithrandir placed a gnarled hand on her wan cheek and said quietly, “You are a worthy descendant of Finwë.”

“There was a time when I believed that,” she shook her head.

 

Mithrandir looked on as Thranduil talked politely with a cleaning maid, his voice calm and low. This was one ruler who did not treat his people arrogantly. Also, the wizard mused, the elf was the youngest ruler in the history of the elves. Even Gil-Galad had been older when he had taken on the kingship of the Noldor. Thranduil was young and retained a measure of vulnerability though he tried to cover it by a diplomatic mask. The wizard watched the golden unbound hair clashing against the plain, dark green robes. The elf resembled Ingwë in more ways than one. 

“And why is a venerable wizard gawking at me?” Thranduil asked with a smirk as he finished the discussion with the maid, “One would think that you see a secret to your quest in my form!”

“It may be so,” Mithrandir found that he liked bantering with the young elf, “My eyes see past much, young lord.”

“Indeed, I am glad to hear that some part of you is actually serving you,” Thranduil looked at Mithrandir’s stooped form meaningfully, “How many more of your kin will arrive on these shores to keep an eye on you?”

“Elves should not concern themselves about the affairs of the Maiar,” Mithrandir huffed, “Lesser beings you are, occupy yourself with lesser concerns.”

“Aren’t we smug?” Thranduil laughed, “But my dear wizard, you are in an elven realm. Unless you wish to be stoned, please grovel at my fair feet.”

“You are a sharp one, young lord,” Mithrandir said grinning, his expression sobered as he looked upon a wall-length portrait, “Your father.”

“Yes, Mithrandir,” Thranduil smiled softly as he looked upon the picture, “That golden elf is my father who took on both the parents’ roles in my life.”

“I have seen your mother, young lord, and she was a wonderful woman,” Mithrandir said quietly.

“Well, I knew that already. My father always had excellent choice,” Thranduil smiled, “If he had been ruling, you would have been smothered with respect. He was very honourable. And would have arranged a ball in your honour. I would have too, if you had not been so unpleasing to look upon. You see, as host, I must dance with you, and I prefer to dance with fair-formed people!”

“You are an irreverent sapling,” Mithrandir huffed, “I might turn you into something nasty.”

“I can hold my own, Mithrandir,” Thranduil smiled, “You are ever welcome to try.”

“We will hold a duel when you are outside your lands,” the wizard laughed, “I am no fool to challenge a beast in its own den.”

“Calling me a beast is not going to help matters,” Thranduil promised with sparkling eyes, “I have a long memory and a heavy reluctance to forgive.”

They laughed together and then Thranduil asked, “Shall we toast to our new friendship with the oldest wine in my cellar?”

“Indeed,” Mithrandir nodded his head, “Are you are allowed to drink? You seem too young.”

Thranduil said nothing as he poured fine, red wine into a goblet and handed it to Mithrandir. Then he poured out a goblet for himself and raised it to toast. They brought their cups together and then began to drink. 

The wizard asked disoriented, “What is there in this brew? So heady, so intoxicating!”

“This, my friend, is the famed Dorwinion of my land. Rest assured that you will be sick tomorrow,” Thranduil drained his wine and nodded gracefully to the now struggling Mithrandir and walked away.

* * *

Celeborn pursed his lips and scowled at young elf maiden who stood before him nervously.

“I am about to ride on patrol, young lord,” he said coldly, “Give my apologies to the princess. I will meet her when I return this evening.”

“But, My Lord, she said----,” the young woman began in earnest, but Celeborn glared at her and she stopped hastily.

“Ada!” Celebrían ran to her father’s side panting slightly from the exertion, “Do come, it is important.”

“Child, you should not run like this. It is harmful,” Celeborn chided her before dismounting. 

He nodded to the rest of the troop and they rode away. He placed a steadying arm around his daughter’s waist and pressed a kiss to her sweating forehead. She leant onto him and rested her head against his shoulder.

“What is it?” he asked with a resigned sigh, “Someone should lead the patrols, or has Anoriel forgotten that?”

“Is there a problem at the borders?” she asked worriedly looking up at him.

“Thranduil has been relentlessly slaughtering the orcs in the vales of the river for the past few days. Those which escape move towards our lands. Haldir is on the mountain paths, so we need someone at the other border with Thranduil,” Celeborn said quietly. 

“Is Thranduil so bored without Anoriel that he is on an orc hunt?” Celebrían wrinkled her nose in disgust, “He is weird sometimes.”

“He cannot bear orcs despoiling his lands,” Celeborn smiled, “No elf can. We in Lothlórien are blessed to have him to our north. Otherwise it would be our lot to chase those goblins. Now what is Anoriel’s summons for?”

“Prince of Doriath?” a deep, hoarse voice asked, “Well met.”

“And who addresses me?” Celeborn turned to face the stooped, aged figure behind him. He narrowed his eyes and murmured, “Maiar.”

“Mithrandir, Lord Thranduil named me,” the wizard bowed, “I come to seek your counsel, Celeborn of Doriath.”

Celebrían bowed and left them alone. Celeborn said gravely, “My Lord Mithrandir, I must confess that your request is odd. I am but an elf, what counsel can an elf give a wizard?”

“I am new to these lands. I know only what I have seen in Vaire’s tapestries and what I have heard from Lord Círdan. I wish to aid your fight,” the wizard said quietly, “And your lady asked to come to you, for she called you one amongst the wisest elves of Middle-Earth.”

“My wife,” Celeborn’s eyes darkened, “She does me great honour to call me wise. She is the wisest of those in these lands. I am a mere warrior and a Sinda. How do I compare to the might of the Noldor?”

“I really don’t have the time or the patience for the rifts in the elf clans,” the wizard growled, “I want unity amongst us. And you should agree with me unless you are determined to grant Sauron victory on a platter!”

Celeborn bowed saying, “I have always revered the wisdom of wizards, Lord Mithrandir. Tell me what you would like me to relate.”

Mithrandir bowed and they began discussing the matters of Middle-Earth. The wizard was impressed by the quiet strength of the elf-lord. There was untarnished hope in Celeborn’s soul despite all the destruction he had seen wreaked. This was vastly different from Círdan’s resignation and Galadriel’s proud but weary endurance. 

“You are an optimist,” Mithrandir commented as Celeborn picked up a wayward elfling sticking a tongue out at the wizard.

Celeborn laughed as he ruffled the boy’s hair and then handed him to his father, who looked rather embarrassed by the boy’s behaviour. But the silver haired elf smiled and nodded politely.

“Optimism is necessary to endure these lands, Mithrandir, otherwise you may find yourself as worn inside as you are outside,” Celeborn said with a gentle smile, “Your self-appointed task is daunting to say the least, my friend, if you wish to survive it you will need to learn to hope.”

“I met Lord Oropherion,” Mithrandir sighed, “He has a will of iron beneath that fair form. I understand that you are his nearest kin. His mother’s grandfather is now alone and wishes to see him at least once. I would have told the young elf myself, but I thought you would have a better chance at persuading him.”

“He will stay for his father’s sake,” Celeborn shrugged uneasily, “I have sworn to watch over him. He is reckless in battle but valiant. We would well have lost the first few days of the last battle if it had not been for his daring. Took on the wraiths. Mithrandir, it is well that he stays. Truly, Amroth cannot defend Lothlórien alone. The west is safe as long as Thranduil keeps vigil in his realm.”

Mithrandir said quietly, “I met his queen soon after my arrival here. She is a worthy lady, and will help him bear his burdens.”

“What can we do to find of Sauron’s whereabouts?” Celeborn sighed, “Isildur died in the fields near the river Anduin. Thranduil searched high and low for the ring, but he did not find it. My wife, too, was not able to sense it.”

“Your lady is a much-tried woman,” Mithrandir said soberly, “She has none of the radiance which characterised her when I had known her in Aman.”

“She worries too much,” Celeborn smiled bitterly, “And there is a cursed mirror in this land which drains her soul. Not to mention the entire guilt-list of her family. Sometimes I do wonder if I have married a wraith walking in the past,” he shook his head, “Come, Mithrandir, I must not weary you with my marriage story, though it is said to be the most interesting one on either side of the sea! Let me lead you to a talan and then have refreshment, food and drink brought. You must be weary.”

“Yes,” the wizard sighed, “Your daughter is with child. My warm regards.”

“Yes, she is married to Elrond,” Celeborn averted his eyes, “Only five more months, I daresay.”

 

Elrond wiped his hands on a clean cloth and walked out of the healing chambers. Orc raids were growing in the wilds and Gildor had sent many wounded warriors of the Wandering Company to Imladris.

He wandered into the deserted Hall of Fire hoping to grab something to eat. His work in the healing halls had called him away from bed yesterday night and he had toiled all through the day. Now it was past midnight and the servants had cleared away the last remnants of supper. He would have to go without food. Sighing, he decided to retire. His limbs were threatening to fail and his entire body ached. 

At least, he thought consolingly, now that Glorfindel was back, he did not have to worry about the patrols and the barracks. Erestor too, was in better spirits falling back into the easy squabbling that characterised his relationship with the Balrog Slayer.

He opened the door and let himself in. There was a kettle and a tray of food placed on his bedside table. Elrond smiled as he inhaled the lingering scent of Erestor. It heartened him that Erestor had taken the trouble to make sure he ate. With a faint smile on his lips, he settled in for bed.

 

Thranduil gazed at the moon absently, his nightmares were haunting him. Though Anoriel tried to support him through their bond, he did not draw on her strength. He knew that she must be worn out by the administration of the realm. He felt guilty that there was nothing he could do to help her. Not wanting to worry her, he hid his weariness from their bond. 

But his tiredness was affecting his duties. He could ask for a sleeping draught from one of the junior healers, but they would tell Thalion. Thranduil did not want an angry, concerned, over-protective Thalion dosing him with a brew that would send him into the blissful oblivion of healing sleep for days.

“It is a cold night to be outside,” Galadriel said quietly as she came to stand by him on the balcony, her frail form warmed by a thick fur cloak.

“But it is a beautiful night,” Thranduil smiled as she leant her head onto his shoulder trustingly, one of her hands wrapping around his waist.

“You trust me,” Thranduil broke the easy silence, “I wonder how that came about. It is rather shocking.”

Galadriel replied thoughtfully, “I have always respected you. But trust, I think I began trusting you after meeting you on the Hithaeglir that night. Do you trust me?”

“In the short term, yes,” Thranduil said seriously, “but in the longer term, I cannot afford to. You are prone to act for good of the greater cause. And that entails harsh choices. I cannot be sure that you will never choose the greater good over my interests.”

She flinched and withdrew, but he brought her hands to his lips saying quietly, “But you have my sincere love, Galadriel. Once I told you that I had no need for a second parent, because Ada was everything I would ever want. Now I know better. I need a foster-parent. We may not agree on many matters, but I will always look upon you as the nearest figure to a mother I never had.”

She embraced him and said in a shaking voice, “You honour me, Ernil-nîn, more than I deserve to be honoured. As you said, I cannot promise to do the best by you always, but I love you as the son I never had. Thank you, for understanding me.”

“I will speak to Celeborn,” he said as they parted from the embrace, “Hopefully that might reconcile you.”

“I will return, Thranduil, the mirror wills it so,” she said with a bitter sigh, “But not now. I need to gain some courage before I can bear to see him with others.”

“It is merely to spite you enough so that you will go and seek him,” Thranduil said comfortingly, “You know how he is.”

“Enough of that,” Galadriel shook her head firmly, “Both he and I must pay for our stubbornness. My concern this night is different. Come to bed, Thranduil, you look as if you are about to faint any moment.”

“I have never fainted!,” Thranduil said indignantly, “But I think I will take your advice and retire. I am tired. A good night, my lady.”

“I am coming with you,” she said smiling, “let us put aside our masks for once. I have nightmares too. And Thalion has refused to give me any more sleeping draughts. He has also strictly kept me away from the herbs required to make one. So, shall we find rest together?”

Thranduil smiled and extended his hand to her.

 

Elrond was woken by loud knocking on his door the next morning. Cursing, he made his way to the door sleepily and opened it to find an irate Balrog Slayer.

“Yes?” Elrond stood back to let him enter.

“Erestor told me the whole story!” Glorfindel said through clenched teeth, “I am leaving for Lothlórien.”

“I will accompany you gladly! But the thing is Celeborn might be unpredictable. He will certainly kill me for not doing my duty by my wife. He won’t be lenient on Erestor too, I daresay. I am not going to walk into a wolf’s lair, Glorfindel, and I suggest that you follow my example,” Elrond said even as Glorfindel shot him a very murderous look that would have scared a Balrog to death.

“What do we do?” Glorfindel plopped down exhaustedly into a chair, “He is guilt-ridden. Nothing I say makes him understand that he is not at fault. I am worried that he might do something drastic to save you the dishonour as he considers it.”

“So am I,” Elrond sighed, “If Thranduil were here, he might have sorted out matters admirably.”

“Elrond,” Glorfindel said hesitantly, an uncertain expression in his eyes, “Do you think that he feels guilty of betraying your love?”

Elrond’s eyes widened as he realized the implication of Glorfindel’s question. They stared at each other silently.

 

“Bría,” Celeborn said quietly, “Maybe we should write to your mother and ask her to come back for the birthing,” he winced at Celebrían’s cold glare, “I mean, you need a healer.”

“I will not have her anywhere near me, Ada!” she said reproachfully before turning to her sewing again.

“Maybe Elrond then?” Celeborn asked nervously, “You must agree that a healer of expertise must be called. I would call Thalion, but I am afraid that Thranduil would find it difficult to manage his realm in his absence”

“Anoriel is good enough,” Celebrían shrugged, “If you need to reassure yourself, please write to Thalion when the time approaches. Thranduil will not grudge you that. But I think that Anoriel will manage quite well.”

 

Amroth asked quietly, “So you will not bind with me?”

“Unless you take me to a land which is without grief and unmarred by war, Amroth, I cannot marry you,” Nimrodel said sadly, “I cannot bear to see trees despoiled and lives taken without mercy and reason.”

“There is no land which is unmarred by sorrows, Nimrodel,” Amroth said earnestly, “Lothlórien is the least marred of lands in Middle-Earth.”

“There will be such a place,” Nimrodel said steadily, “If you had the courage but to seek it.”

Amroth looked at her unwavering eyes, resolute with determination. He knew that he was doomed to love her. This love would claim him bitterly. But as his sister had said, he would be a coward to give up love. Her words rung in his heart,

“Take your chance at love, Amroth. Give it all, and you will receive what it is worth in time.”

He took a deep breath and said determinedly, “As you wish, my lady, I will leave all I am to be with you. We will seek this place together.”

She seemed stunned but then smiled and hugged him. Their lips met in a kiss, but Amroth could feel the bitterness in his heart even above the sweetness of her taste. A lone owl hooted mournfully in the deep woods.

* * *

Thranduil woke with a smile on his lips. Warm sunrays caressed him, sighing, he thought of the mundane tasks and patrols that awaited him this day. He made to get up unwillingly. It was time to face another day.

A slender, yet surprisingly strong hand made to drag him down. He turned to his bedmate. Galadriel was stirring slowly, a frown on her exhausted features as she registered the loss of warmth of his body. He leant on one arm and waited until the blue eyes had focussed on him.

“Late,” she said drowsily, shutting her eyes reflexively at the bright sunlight, “I think you are late.”

“Indeed,” he laughed, “I am very late. You have been an admirable sleeping companion. No distractions at all! This is the first time I have had a partner who has not exhausted me with strenuous activities.”

“You overrate your charm,” she said with a mock glare, “Since you are already late, maybe I can persuade you to spend a few more hours in this bed?”

“And how will you persuade me, My Lady?” he said as he let his head fall back onto the mattress. 

In truth, he doubted that he required persuading. He would just let Thalion deal with the matters of the day. He was tired.

“I will sing for you,” she said solemnly, “If you will not leave.”

“I will listen to that song later,” he said sleepily as he pulled the covers back on him, he placed her hand in his hair and said quietly, “I think I could get used to this.”

“I am afraid that I am getting used to this already,” she murmured as she trailed her fingers through his hair.

He smiled, but his eyes were already unfocussed. Shaking her head, she pressed a kiss to his hair and followed him into reverie. 

 

“Where is he?” Elrond entered Erestor’s study and saw only a hardworking Melpomaen. 

“My Lord,” Melpomaen bowed, “Lord Erestor has retired, I presume. He left early. But I think he might have gone to the river. He does so every night before retiring.”

Elrond nodded and made his way outside. The weather was becoming milder, yet he felt cold. Wishing that he had thought to put on a robe above his tunic and leggings, he walked faster to the river. 

It was serene, except for the nightsounds. He took in a deep breath and exhaled. His worries and burdens of the day evaporated. Smiling, he sat down on a boulder near their favoured cove. Knowing Erestor’s penchant for swimming in the cold river at midnight, he settled for a long wait.

Soon he distinguished a form swimming steadily towards him, slicing sharp strokes in the calm river. Elrond raised his hand in greeting. Erestor swam towards him and halted at the foot of the boulder. His face looked more relaxed, swimming had that effect on him always.

“Shall I take it that you are in a less foul mood than you were this morning?” Elrond asked amusedly as Erestor stepped out of the water and shivered in the cold air. He kept his eyes firmly fixed on Erestor’s face, not allowing them to wander over the exposed body.

“I had a reason to be in a foul mood, mellon-nîn,” Erestor wrung his hair vindictively and water rained down on Elrond, “Glorfindel locked me within my own chambers and left on patrol! The blundering pest, I will have his eyes gouged when he returns!”

He bent down to pick up a towel and Elrond’s line of sight was filled with a very elegant spine smoothly giving way to narrow hips. He closed his eyes hastily and controlled his breathing. When he opened his eyes again, Erestor was drying his body, his gaze fastened on Elrond intensely.

“What is it?” Elrond asked defensively.

Erestor shrugged, shivering in the cold night wind. Elrond sighed and picked up another towel. He got to his feet and began drying Erestor’s soaked hair. 

“Why do you persist in coming here every night?” Elrond asked, “Elf, you may be, but you may fall ill all the same, bathing in this cold water!” 

“It gives me a measure of peace,” Erestor said quietly, he shrugged into his robe and picked up his discarded towels and clothing.

They walked silently back towards the house. As Elrond turned to speak again, he noticed that Erestor’s lips were scant inches away from his. He parted his lips nervously, but no words came out. Impulsively, he reached out to touch Erestor’s lips with his fingers. Erestor shuddered and then closed his eyes. They had stopped walking. 

Elrond felt his heart drum in his ribcage as Erestor stepped closer to him. Their bodies were almost touching. Elrond grasped his companion’s waist and drew them together.

“My Lords,” Lindir’s melodious voice was soft, as if hesitant to interrupt, “A wizard waits in the Hall of Fire seeking an audience with you.”

Elrond let his hands fall limp and moved away, his eyes firmly averted as he tried to recompose himself. 

Erestor cleared his throat and said politely to Lindir, “We come immediately, mellon-nîn. See that the good wizard is sent refreshments. He must have travelled far. On second thoughts, I think I shall call Glorfindel,” he left hurriedly after Lindir. 

Elrond scowled and cursed the guest before walking alone towards the Hall of Fire.

 

“My Lord Olórin!” Glorfindel greeted the wizard warmly as he entered the hall with Erestor. Elrond was seated across the wizard, a scowl on his features.

“Glorfindel!” the wizard stood up and accepted the warm embrace that Glorfindel enclosed him in, “I am glad to see that life in Middle-Earth is to your taste. You look well.”

“I cannot say the same of you,” Glorfindel inspected the wizard, “You look rather unappealing to the eye!”

“That is what Thranduil said,” Olórin laughed, “He named me Mithrandir, for I was graced with this form because I dared to defy the will of Manwë and come to your aid. And I have fallen in love with that name.”

“You met Thranduil, My Lord?” 

Mithrandir looked past Glorfindel at the slender, tall, pale, dark-haired figure that had addressed him. Dark eyes watched him curiously.

“Yes, I did, I hope I have the honour of addressing Lord Erestor Maglorion?” Mithrandir asked as he took in the aristocratic features of the house of Finwë that characterised Erestor.

Erestor bowed and said warmly, “I am Erestor, My Lord, and this,” he gestured gracefully at a still scowling Elrond, “This is Lord Elrond Peredhel, Herald of the Noldor.”

“And does he scowl always?” Mithrandir asked as Elrond looked up at him without any particular enthusiasm, “He seems most unhappy to see me.”

Glorfindel laughed saying, “He is all right, mellon-nîn, simply overwrought by his cares. We shall lead you to your chambers and discuss matters more clearly tomorrow.”

“I wish I had the time to tarry,” Mithrandir sighed, “Unfortunately, I must go the human realms too. All I wanted to convey was that my services are yours in this battle. From the moment Gil-Galad died, I wanted to come and aid your fight.”

He noticed the sudden flash of unease in the room at the mention of the high-king’s name. Elrond’s scowl slipped as he looked concernedly at Erestor. The chief-counsellor stood rigid, his eyes glittering darkly in suppressed grief. 

Glorfindel cleared his throat and said quietly, “The high-king’s fall was a terrible tragedy to all, but to us, it was of a personal nature. He was my sword-brother, Elrond’s cousin and Erestor’s bonded mate.”

“Lord Celeborn did not tell me,” Mithrandir bowed apologetically, “All I knew, I heard from him. I apologize, particularly to you, Lord Erestor, for opening old wounds again.”

“It was unintentional, My Lord Mithrandir, there is nothing to forgive,” Erestor’s voice was calm, “I am glad that he did not fall in vain, for you have now come to aid the cause for which he sacrificed his life. The services of Imladris and of ourselves are at your behest, My Lord, as long as you desire them.”

“I am glad,” Mithrandir smiled, “Now, I would like to congratulate Lord Elrond for the heir who will join us in barely three months!”

To his utter surprise, he felt a frisson of unease in the room. Erestor averted his eyes to the fireplace, Glorfindel was staring at the rug. 

Elrond relinquished his oath of silence and said politely, “Thank you, My Lord, We here at Imladris look forward to that happy occasion.” 

Mithrandir said curiously, “Did I say the wrong thing, for I seem to have offended all of you in some way.”

Elrond smiled and said sincerely, “Our marriage, as you might know, is a political one. The sole purpose was to beget an heir, which is now achieved. There was no love and there never will be.”

“But you are bonded,” Mithrandir said uneasily, “Though I did not detect the bond in your wife. Did you sacrifice your heart to a one-sided bond, Lord Elrond?”

The wizard noticed Glorfindel’s flinch at his words. 

Elrond’s face darkened and he said quietly, “I don’t believe that would be your concern at all. Our services, as Erestor said, are at our behest. But not our private lives. I will be grateful if you do not pry where it is not appreciated.”

Mithrandir made to retort, but Erestor intervened saying, “My Lord Mithrandir, as I said, you are very welcome in Imladris. You must pardon Elrond’s words, for we guard our privacy very zealously in this realm. However, I will myself explain this to you. You seem the kind who will investigate till you receive an answer. We might as well as save you the trouble. Elrond bonded with me after the last battle against darkness when the King fell. I was almost pulled into Mandos with Gil. Elrond saved me. As you said, it is a sacrifice. But I am ever grateful to him.”

Mithrandir bowed saying, “Thank you, for telling me something that I was very curious to understand. Lord Elrond, I will not tell anyone this,” he addressed Elrond, who was staring coldly at him, “You are nobler than the tales make you out to be!”

“Indeed,” Glorfindel laughed, dissolving the tense moment, “He is quite an enigma, Mithrandir, you shall have an intriguing time trying to understand him.”

“I must retire,” Elrond stood up and bowed formally, “I will have a busy day ahead of me tomorrow.”

 

Elrond did not even bother to undress as he flopped down onto the bed angrily. He welcomed the wizard’s arrival. But he did not appreciate the timing. He had been so close…so close to kissing Erestor…and Erestor had also been eager enough.

“Elrond?” Erestor entered the room through the interconnecting door quietly, “You should have been more courteous.”

“I will apologize to him the first thing tomorrow,” Elrond sighed, “Happy?”

“Not yet,” Erestor came to sit by him hesitantly, “I know I should not ask this of you. But in the woods, you gave me rather tempting hopes.”

Elrond looked up into the vulnerable face above him. Silently, he moved to make space for Erestor beside him. He watched Erestor slide in and lie on his back, not looking at Elrond. Reverentially, he raised an arm to caress the sharp jawbone. Erestor turned to face him and met his gaze.

“You have been much burdened of late,” Erestor remarked as he played absently with Elrond’s thick hair.

“So have you,” Elrond replied as he snuggled closer to the warm body beside him. 

“I know you said that you would never approach me for bodily comfort,” Erestor said plainly, “But I would be happy if you did now.”

Elrond did not stop to think for once in his life as he leant across to claim Erestor’s lips possessively, “I was angry, I had been so close…”

Erestor threaded his fingers in Elrond’s hair and tugged Elrond atop him. Elrond soon felt control slip away from him as Erestor’s tongue duelled his fiercely. He closed his eyes and abandoned his conscience as he moved his hands southwards untying the single sash of Erestor’s robe and pulling it away leaving the body bare to his hungry eyes. 

“You are thinner,” Elrond said concernedly as he traced the protruding hip bone. 

Erestor fiddled with Elrond’s tunic impatiently saying, “I hope that you do not hold it against me.”

“No,” Elrond bent to press feathery kisses causing Erestor to gasp in pleasure, “But as a healer, I would have you put some meat on these bones.”

Erestor laughed softly as he finally pushed away Elrond’s tunic. Their eyes met and Erestor whispered, “Would you?”

Elrond pulled down his leggings and lay beside his companion murmuring, “I like it when you are in control. It sort of gives me a sense of security, a sense of belonging,” he shrugged, “I don’t have your way with words.”

“Please?” Erestor breathed, “I am usually reluctant to lose control, but today, I would.”

“As you wish,” Elrond grasped Erestor’s waist and bent his head to swallow the already moist, aroused organ. 

Erestor seemed stunned by the move and threw his head back arching off the bed. Elrond steadied him and tried to soothe him futilely. He gave up, instead concentrating on the sight before him. Erestor was unrestrained in passion, his eyes darkening to coal black, his normally pale features flushed, tears trailing down his face. When he climaxed, he fell back panting heavily, sweat covering his entire body, still wracked by the release.

“Incredible,” Elrond murmured as he pressed a kiss to Erestor’s wet brow, “I cannot imagine what it would be like to do this slowly.”

“I have never much cared for receiving slowness,” Erestor laughed weakly, “I am impatient in this matter.”

“So have you done this before?” Elrond asked nervously as Erestor looked at him invitingly.

“Twice,” Erestor shrugged uneasily, “You?”

“Thranduil and I, we rarely did it this way,” Elrond admitted as he took a small vial of healing oil, “He was more skilled, and it was easier on both of us with him in charge.”

He half-expected Erestor to reverse the roles then, but the chief-counsellor smiled softly and said, “So this is an aberration, I love aberrations!”

“Then we go ahead?” Elrond asked uncertainly as he opened the phial.

“And never look back,” Erestor nodded as he parted his legs.

“Wouldn’t it be better if you turned around?” Elrond asked quietly as he poured the oil onto his fingers.

“That reminds me too much of animals…how they rut. This is different, at least according to my humble views. We are aware of our actions. Why then should we not face each other in the joining?” Erestor asked solemnly as he led Elrond’s shivering hand to his entrance.

“Fair philosophy,” Elrond said unsteadily as he tried to pierce the opening, “I am nervous though.”

“Coat my fingers,” Erestor said quietly, “Maybe I should do it.”

Elrond complied and coated his fingers with the oil. Erestor smiled reassuringly and raised his legs to his chest.

“Have you done this before?” Elrond asked worriedly, all thoughts of pleasure fleeing from his mind as Erestor flinched in pain.

“No,” Erestor gasped as he added one more finger, “But there is always a first time, isn’t there?”

Elrond sighed and placed his hands on Erestor’s quivering shoulders to steady him as Erestor tried to ease into the invasion. 

“I deem it that we are ready to get moving,” Erestor gasped as he withdrew his fingers, “Elrond?”

Elrond broke his gaze away from Erestor’s flushed lips and nodded. Erestor’s fingers coated his arousal with oil, all the while stroking it teasingly. Elrond found it darkly amusing that he should be so scared of being on the dominating side. Then again, he thought, he was a healer, accustomed to receiving pain and not dealing it.

“Stop me if it hurts,” Elrond said quietly. He had not been this worried even during his first time with Thranduil. But then he had been younger, more reckless and daring.

“It will not,” Erestor said confidently though his eyes were a bit uncertain, he snaked his legs fast about Elrond’s waist, “Come, now. I am ready.”

Elrond took a deep breath and moved. His first thrust was shallow, Erestor’s grip on the sheets clenched. Then they moved sinuously, rising and falling in delighted pleasure until Elrond climaxed with his companion’s name on his bruised lips. Erestor followed and they lay panting and heaving, their limbs entwined.

* * *

“My Lord,” Anoriel walked into Celeborn’s chambers.

“Yes,” Celeborn glanced at her curiously and reverted his gaze to the magnificent sunset.

“Celebrían’s time is near. I think we should send for a good healer. I have reasons to suspect that this birth will be a long, painful one,” she sighed as she joined him on the balcony.

“I thought so,” he said quietly, “I would have sent for Elrond, had she not been against that so much. I did not wish to upset her while she is in the last stages of pregnancy. Maybe we should send for Thalion.”

“Then I must go to Thranduil,” Anoriel said tiredly, “I don’t think he can manage the nights on his own. The dreams torment him. I cannot leave Lothlórien unless we have someone to take charge of the administration.”

“Shall I beg my wife to come?” he asked smiling bitterly, “I think that was what you wanted from the start.”

“No,” she said reassuringly placing a hand on his, “That is none of my concern, My Lord and I would never dare to interfere. The situation is merely this: your daughter will need an experienced healer to assist in the birth; Thranduil cannot be left alone; I cannot go unless there is someone here to take charge. Moreover,” she smiled, “I wish to see her child.”

“What do you suggest?” he asked quietly. 

He missed Oropher, the steady assurance that his cousin could give him. He missed Galadriel, who was never afraid of choices. And he missed Thranduil’s quiet courage, which had seen Celeborn through a lot.

“I will write to Thranduil,” she smiled, “We will see what he wishes. Maybe he can be persuaded to come. Menor, the new assistant, is quite capable. Thranduil would be glad to see ‘Bría’s child. He loves elflings.”

He nodded and they silently watched the sunset together.

 

Elrond woke with a lazy, sated grin. He turned to watch Erestor. 

“Awake, are we?” Erestor asked smiling as he rested his head on a hand and looked down at Elrond.

“I hoped to watch you stir,” Elrond muttered, “Still, I hope there will other times,” he watched Erestor’s face carefully.

“Would you settle for this, when you wish for more?” Erestor asked sadly, as he fingered a strand of Elrond’s hair pensively.

Elrond rose and pressed a kiss to Erestor’s collarbone saying softly, “Even a single glance from you can make my day, ‘Restor, always.”

“So you are not going to demand physical comfort again?” Erestor raised an eyebrow expectantly, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Not unless you coerce me,” Elrond laughed, knowing well that particular tone of voice. He had heard it many a time during Erestor’s debates with Glorfindel.

“I do intend to coerce you,” Erestor bent to catch Elrond’s lips in a deep, lingering kiss that made Elrond lose all sense of being.

“Somehow, I don’t think that you need to work hard to coerce me,” Elrond gasped as they parted.

 

Mithrandir walked through the fragrant rose gardens with his old friend, Glorfindel.

“Thranduil warned me not to make an enemy of Elrond,” the wizard said quietly, “Yet I believe that he is easily offended.”

Glorfindel said lightly, “Of course not. That was just one of his periodic depressions. Most of us, who have fought in the last battle, can admit to such nasty moods. And believe it or not, Maglor and Maedhros have spoilt him to the hilt. I don’t assume that even a royal upbringing would have made him more arrogant.”

“But what is this household?” Mithrandir bent to inspect a rose bud, “The very trees speak of secrets held and memories made.”

Glorfindel said nothing as he carefully studied the clouds in the sky. Personally, he was worried about the situation between Elrond and Erestor. He had gone to Erestor’s room late in the night and found it empty. That, coupled with Lindir’s fears voiced this morning, had confirmed his suspicion that Erestor was with Elrond. His friend was not up yet. Glorfindel had never known Erestor to wake so late unless he had company in bed. He did not grudge them the comfort, they deserved that and more. But why did they have to give in to their instincts when a prying, farseeing wizard was there?

“Glorfindel, Lord Mithrandir,” Elrond’s voice hailed him out of his dark thoughts, “A fine morning to be in the gardens!”

“A fine morning to you, Lord Elrond,” Mithrandir bowed, “Can I have a word alone with you?”

Glorfindel gave Elrond a warning glance before going back into the house.

“I am sorry for the shabby welcome I gave you,” Elrond said quietly, “I was not in a mood to receive any sort of visitors.”

“There is nothing to forgive, after all, I too have my own failings. I did not make matters easier with all my questions, did I?” Mithrandir smiled, “You were reasonably upset that I had caused Lord Erestor to remember the sad past. If anything, I am happy that you are as close-knit a group of friends as you are. I would be honoured if you told me what Lord Celeborn could not, the exact relationships between the elven realms. ”

“Yes,” Elrond said carefully, Erestor had advised him to tell the truth as much as he could, that would satisfy the wizard’s curiosity, “I met Glorfindel soon after my arrival in Lindon. He is sworn to my line. Then Erestor took his place as the chief-counsellor a century or so later. Thranduil and he, they are peers. So they have a common past in Lindon, at the council tables and the practice arena. I have always had a rapport with Thranduil and to some extent, with Celeborn. Erestor and Glorfindel, they are nigh inseparable. Erestor followed his friend to war in Eregion just the dawn after his wedding. He and I led the host, and when the city fell, we led the long retreat to Imladris. We were all separated by the sieges. War sundered us once during Eregion, it was darkly amusing that war of the last alliance should unite us all again. We rode to Thranduil’s betrothal and after that to war. We fought together, we burned the pyres together. So, you will understand that we are closer than most ties of blood.”

“But you are tied by blood,” Mithrandir said even as Elrond stopped walking in silent shock, “The blood of Finwë.”

“Yes,” Elrond said relieved beyond measure. For a moment, he had suspected the wizard knew of their true situation.

“As interesting as this past might be, My Lord,” Elrond continued quietly, “I have more causes of concern regarding the re-emergence of evil in Middle-Earth. The wandering company has lost many a warrior in orc-raids. Thranduil’s lands too are being trespassed.”

“What is it that bothers you?” Mithrandir asked, “The ring?”

“Yes,” Elrond sighed.

“Why didn’t you try to kill Isildur when you had the chance? Celeborn never gave me a reason for your actions in the mountain of fire,” Gandalf asked curiously.

“I could not,” Elrond took a deep breath, lying to a wizard was tough, but for their sakes he had to manage successfully, “There was a strange strength to him. We were in the place where it was forged, I daresay that made its lure stronger. I knew I could not succeed in killing him. So I did the only thing I could, I ensured that I survived. At least that way I was able to hold together a leaderless people.”

“You deem your failure to act as wisdom?” Mithrandir asked disbelievingly stopping his walk to stare at Elrond.

“I did what I felt was right,” Elrond shrugged, “The Ages of foolish bravery are long behind the house of Finwë. None of us now; Galadriel, Gildor, Erestor or myself; can choose the option anymore. Gil-Galad was the last to walk that path of valour. It is not that I fear death, but if I die I want my death to be useful.”

“So what is your wise counsel?” Mithrandir raised his eyebrows incredulously, “Wait and hide until Sauron emerges?”

“I would keep vigil. I would search for the ring,” Elrond said gravely, “And I will send as many women and children across the sea as I can. One fleeting victory has cost us a high-king, and we are bereft of leadership. I am a half-elf, I cannot exert authority lest they hate me. And Erestor will not take up the reins. That leaves nobody else. So all we can do is to build a refuge and consolidate.”

 

Glorfindel saw his friend watching the breakfast preparations in the hall of fire, clad in a simple grey robe. Erestor had a smile on his lips as he talked with the cook. 

“A good morning to you,” Glorfindel slipped his hand around Erestor’s waist, “Up late, are we?”

“I believe I have earned that indulgence,” Erestor smiled as he leant back against Glorfindel, “Where is your wizard?”

“I believe Elrond is apologising to him right now,” Glorfindel laughed as he walked his friend to the dining table noting with extreme glee the wincing movements made, “Did you put an enchantment on our dear half-elf?”

Erestor knew that his friend and long time guardian was merely trying to find out what exactly he had done yesterday, so he took a deep breath and turned to face him. 

“I slept with him,” Erestor said in a low voice, “And I don’t know what to do now.”

“What do you want to do?” Glorfindel asked quietly.

“Do it again, what else?” Erestor said bitterly, “I know I am betraying my vows. That is forgivable, Galadriel forgave her husband’s infidelity.”

“Then?” Glorfindel leant closer and held Erestor’s chin up, “What is it you fear?”

“That I love being with him more than being with Gil. That I love him more than I ever did Gil. I fear that a part of me has always loved Elrond even when I had been married to Gil. What kind of perverse soul does that make me?” Erestor sighed.

“You regret last night?” Glorfindel asked gently.

“Not in the least, Valar have mercy,” Erestor whispered.

“You do what you wish to do,” Glorfindel said quietly, “We will think of vows and punishment later. For each sin, there is redemption. And to love, it is not a sin. Don’t waste your time thinking of the laws of the Eldar. They have never applied to the loves of the house of Finwë.”

“Glorfindel,” Erestor buried his head in his hands, “When will be I judged by what I did than what my family is?”

“I wish I could soothe you and say that one day it will happen,” Glorfindel ran his callused fingers through Erestor’s dark mane, “But I fear that it will never happen.”

“Elrond knows that too,” Erestor sighed, “And yet he is ready to walk this path. He does not fear being doomed. I wish I had the courage.”

“All your family had that courage. Even Galadriel. Now look where they are,” Glorfindel said quietly, “I will not say that in the end, you will be happy. Whether you stick by the rules of the Eldar or not, the end will be bitter. So gain whatever joy you can while you can.”

“The way you say that, mellon-nîn,” Erestor groaned as he let his head drop on to the table, “I feel like getting drunk on your ale again.”

He raised his head and let it fall again with a thud, Glorfindel hastily pulled him up and demanded, “Seriously, it cannot be so bad!”

“It is,” Erestor sighed, “Thranduil told me that ‘Bría is in labour. That I slept with Elrond exactly when his wife is in labour with my child, Glorfindel, the Valar have an extremely unhealthy sense of humour.”

* * *

Celeborn pressed a hand to his aching temples even as the piercing screams of his daughter resounded in the woods. It had been three long days of exhausting labour with no signs of relief. Three days and nights, he had been at her side, holding her hand and soothing her. Anoriel was doing her best, employing all her healing skills. But it seemed not enough. 

He had been finally sent away from her bedside when he had started sobbing in fear and anguish. Haldir, the marchwarden, and Celebrían’s dear friend had taken his place. Celeborn trusted him, but he was highly strung by the whole process. Never in his long years had he seen a birthing so difficult. Something was wrong. Sighing, he made his way to go back to the talan.

“My Lord,” a familiar voice he had come to love and despise, “I wish to attend to the birthing.”

“She will not have you touching her,” he sighed, not bothering to face her. Truly, he did not want her to see him so anxious.

“I will manage,” his wife’s voice was cool, “Now I must go to her.”

“I will come with you,” Celeborn said suddenly, afraid for his daughter. He smiled wryly, that he could not trust his child with her own mother; it was one of the quirks of their marriage.

They walked silently to the talan. Anoriel emerged, looking exhausted and ready to fall where she stood. She looked up when she saw Celeborn’s companion and sighed in obvious relief.

 

They entered the chamber together. Celeborn slumped into the chair by the bedside and claimed a delirious and screaming Celebrían’s hand. He leant forward to wipe away the tear tracks from her drawn face. 

“I will have to cut,” Galadriel said quietly. Was he imagining or did his wife’s voice shake ever so slightly?

He nodded, Celebrían had not noticed her mother. “Be gentle on her,” he said softly.

“She is my child too,” Galadriel replied as she placed her hands on Celebrían’s belly, “Even if nobody acknowledges that.”

Celeborn did not reply. Instead, he settled for watching his wife merging her energy to Celebrían’s. She shuddered and looked up at him.

“What is it?” he asked nervously.

Galadriel took a deep breath and said softly, “Twins, My Lord. I don’t have the energy to deliver them both.”

“I will help,” he bit his lower lip, “if you tell me how.”

A shadow of a smile flickered on her gaunt features before she said, “I wish you could, My Lord, but it is difficult. Twin boys,” she smiled wanly now, “and with souls almost akin to the fire of Fëanor. They will drain us.”

Celebrían screamed again, Galadriel stood up and began the long surgery. Celeborn closed his eyes and tried to shut his ears out to the screams. Absently, he wondered how his wife could manage to cut open her own daughter so. 

Screams resounded again. Twin screams, infant screams. Celeborn felt the shock stun him to speechless silence as he looked at his wife. Celebrían lay exhausted, in a dead faint. Galadriel was tenderly cleaning two blood-bathed bodies. He stood up and came to stand by her, looking wonderingly at the infants.

“Your grandchildren, my lord,” Galadriel offered.

“And yours,” he said quietly. 

Something flickered in her haunted eyes. Gratitude, he realized. For a few moments, they remained side-by-side, not needing to speak. 

“Don’t touch my children, you hag!” Celebrían cursed as she took in the scene with increasing anger.

Galadriel opened her mouth to reply, but then hesitated. She let the cloth she had been using to wipe the infants, fall to the floor. 

“Get out,” Celebrían said in a voice of quiet menace, “I will not let you meddle with their lives.”

Galadriel flinched, but she quickly recovered and said, “I will leave as you wish, My Lady.”

She exited the chamber quickly, but not quickly enough for Celeborn to not notice the shaking of her hands.

He shook his head and gathered the little elflings to their mother’s side. 

Anoriel entered and gasped saying, “’Bría, twins!” she ran to the bedside and reverentially kissed the elflings’s brows, “Such beautiful children! I have sent word to Imladris.”

“Did you call her?” Celebrían asked wearily.

“No,” Anoriel did not meet her friend’s eyes, “I sent for Lord Thalion.”

Celeborn excused himself as Anoriel began to clean up the mess, Haldir entered the talan to aid them. 

Celeborn walked swiftly to the guards and asked, “Where is my wife?”

“She has ridden out, My Lord,” the warriors said nervously. 

Celeborn took his mare and began riding east, he realized with a jolt that their bond was clear for the first time since the war. She wanted to be found. 

He saw her waiting by the borders of the grasslands, her cloak slipping from her emaciated figure. He dismounted and met her gaze.

“Thank you,” he whispered not knowing what else there was to say.

“She is my daughter too,” she said quietly, “I could not have done anything less.”

“Are you leaving?” he asked softly.

“I must. I cannot stand to bear all these again,” her gaze faltered, “And Thranduil is lonely. I must keep him strong, his ordeals are not over.”

“I will escort you,” he offered lamely, “It is not safe to ride alone. Why did you do it again?”

“I had to come,” she shrugged uneasily, “The bond….your anguish was pouring into the bond. Thalion said he would come, but Thranduil understood. He let me go after exacting a promise that I would return as soon as I could. I could not let you suffer alone.”

“You came for me,” he breathed, moving closer and reaching out to fasten more securely the green brooch of her cloak. It must have been a gift from Thranduil. Nobody else was so addicted to green.

“I,” she met his gaze resolutely. He noticed that her blue eyes contained only dying embers of the once proud fire he had seen in them centuries ago.

“I must say this,” she continued, “I cannot be the wife you deserve. I am bound by the curses on my house. I wish to end our marriage. You may then have a better chance at love.”

“Really,” he said venomously, “Have you ever noticed that I love you, my farseeing wife, despite all?”

“You cannot,” she sighed, “Please, I think this will be better. I, for one, cannot survive loving you and knowing that never again will I be able to relax into your touch. Too much has passed.”

“You mean my infidelity,” he pressed a hand to his head and closed his eyes, “I really don’t know what made me do that. It seems to be in my nature to betray our vows.”

“No,” she smiled softly, her eyes suddenly showing insecurity, “Your infidelity, you were driven to by my actions. It is a curse of my house, even Nerdanel who had loved my uncle so, left him for another. I meant my treatment at the hands of the orcs. I remember you flinching…that night when you came, and you did not even see the worst.”

“Marred or unmarred,” he said gravely, “I have always loved you. I cannot promise I will be true to our vows of fidelity; I seem to be made to stray.”

“And I seem to be made to hurt you,” she whispered sadly, “I hate this, you know. I hate it that I cannot even love you the way I wish to. They broke me, they broke my body, my mind. Thalion healed my body and Thranduil brought me back to sanity. But I have lost something.”

“We have both lost a lot of things,” he sighed, “We will never be what we were in the early years of our marriage. But we can make do with what we have. We will need each other. ‘Bría…you were right that the fire of Fëanor is in the elflings, you know what that means, where they inherited it from. Elrond will be murderous, when he learns what she has done. ”

“Thranduil suspected it,” Galadriel said, “He told me that it was too much to hope that Elrond would ever condescend to touch anyone other than Erestor. But we can hope that Elrond will never find out. Erestor will not speak, and Elrond will not be too worried now that his task is over. People will never suspect, since Bría, Erestor and Elrond are all of the line of Finwe.”

They remained in silence, until she spoke again, “I must leave.”

“But you will return to me,” he asked, “will you not?”

“When I am healed,” she said quietly.

“You will never know the pain of the guilt that bears me down, I almost drove you to your death,” he whispered.

“And you will never know the pain of the guilt that bears me down,” she said quietly, “My own daughter hates me.”

He wanted to reach out to her and embrace her. But that was out of the question. She had always spurned pity, especially his pity. 

She seemed to know his thoughts and said guiltily, “I no longer deserve it.”

“Allow me to decide that,” he said in a trembling voice as he opened his arms to her. She hesitated and held back. 

“Please,” he entreated, “For both of us.”

She stepped into his embrace and tentatively rested her head on his chest, his scent assailed her. She bit her lips and willed back her tears.

“How many more times will I lose you?” she murmured as he bent to press a chaste kiss on her forehead, “How many more times will I survive losing you?”

He said quietly, “I love you, Altáriel, whatever happens between us.” 

 

Elrond hummed softly as he dressed in the silver and red robes that Glorfindel had gifted him two summers ago. This was going to be a test of his fears. Glorfindel had assured him that things would work out. He hoped so fervently. Mithrandir had left after long days of tedious consultations. In deference to discretion, Erestor had refused to join Elrond at nights. Now that the wizard had left, Elrond wished to determine the exact state of matters between them.

“Need help?” the Balrog Slayer, who was sprawled languidly on the bed, enquired.

“I believe I am done,” Elrond critically peered at himself in the mirror, “Though I still think that he is not going to fall for something as simple as this.”

Glorfindel laughed, “You know, the way he has been staring at you all these days. Only the wizard’s presence has restrained his hand. Just relax and things will work out.”

“Hmmm…But I cannot help thinking that we are supposed to go and fetch her back. You and I will go, of course. No point in dragging him along and stoking his guilt,” Elrond smiled at himself in the mirror and asked worriedly, “He will not pour out the Dorwinion for me, I hope? It dulls my senses so!”

Glorfindel smirked, “He’s sworn off drinking, you know. Thranduil has probably lost the most ardent customer of his vintage brew.”

“Well,” Elrond took a deep breath, “I suppose we are ready then. A wager on three hours?”

“I bet on half-an-hour,” Glorfindel drawled, “He is easy, when in this mood.”

 

They entered Erestor’s study. The chief-counsellor was writing a letter, his head resting on his left hand. He looked up as they sat across him.

“What brings you both here?” he folded his letter and leant back, “Especially, you, Glor, you are never inside on such days.”

Elrond carefully extended his leg under the table and brushed it against Erestor’s. To his amusement, Erestor shuddered and withdrew his legs.

“Whom are you writing to?” Glorfindel asked as he made to reach for the letter.

Elrond took his chance and let his leg slide up inside Erestor’s robes. Instead of the soft material of the leggings, his leg encountered the warm, bare flesh. He looked up stunned. Erestor had his gaze fixed on Glorfindel, though a faint blush had risen in his cheeks.

“To Círdan,” Erestor said detachedly as he tried to pull back his legs further. But Elrond hastily locked both his legs around Erestor’s and began to slide them up tantalisingly.

“I see,” Glorfindel’s voice was laced with smooth amusement as Erestor closed his eyes and leant back further into the safety of his chair, “Are you ill? You look flushed, young lord. Maybe you should let Elrond examine you.”

They watched as Erestor muttered a dwarvish curse before saying dismissively, “I am fine. I have an appointment with the weaponry masters now. If you would excuse me,” he managed to wriggle out of Elrond’s legs and got to his feet, smoothing the front of his robes.

“I will see to it,” Glorfindel offered gallantly as he stood up and beat Erestor to the door, he bent down slightly and whispered something in his friend’s ear. Elrond watched amusedly as Erestor shook his head in alarm and cursed.

As the door swung shut behind the Balrog Slayer, Elrond got to his feet leisurely. Erestor was still staring at the door accusingly.

“When are you leaving for Lothlórien?” Erestor asked abruptly.

“Tomorrow after dawn,” Elrond replied, coming to stand behind Erestor and running his fingers through the unbound hair, “So we should not waste time. I am glad that the wizard has left.”

“I have work to do now as have you,” Erestor protested half-heartedly as he leant back onto Elrond, “Why are you dressed up as if for a banquet? We don’t have guests to entertain.”

“No, I have you to entertain,” Elrond breathed huskily, “Pray, are you so wanton that you could not manage to bear leggings?”

Erestor turned and looked at him with a raised eyebrow. Elrond felt a flutter in his stomach, but he had to make one last memory before he left for Lórien. He was determined.

He smiled nervously when Erestor sighed acquiescingly and muttered, “Any particular idea?”

“The desk is most attractive,” Elrond offered.

“Indeed,” Erestor’s lips curled in a grudging smile, “I never thought that you would ever speak such words. I hope that the idea was self-inspired and not Glorfindel’s advice! We will never live it down if he knows of it.”

“He is too old-fashioned, only the grooming was his idea,” Elrond laughed, “So, what is the verdict?”

“Really, Elrond,” Erestor rolled his eyes, “You know that you don’t need to make a grand appearance in fancy robes to lure me! I am inspired by the desk. But you have a journey tomorrow. We cannot tire you out.”

“I believe that I can ride well on a cushioned saddle,” Elrond smiled as he watched the barely concealed desire in Erestor’s eyes. 

“You are decadent,” Erestor said calmly, but his eyes glittered.

Elrond was stunned when Erestor pounced on him without the least of warnings. He was toppled onto the rug and his wrists were held imprisoned in one of Erestor’s hands. The other hand deftly removed the ties of Elrond’s robes baring his skin.

“A case of pot calling the kettle black, Elrond,” Erestor remarked as he saw that his companion too wore nothing underneath the robes, “And you call me wanton!” 

Elrond watched through half-closed eyes as Erestor sat back on his haunches and examined the unclad body before him. Their eyes met and Erestor smiled thoughtfully.

Elrond whispered, “I took the liberty of placing a vial of oil in my robes.”

Erestor raised his eyebrow in mock-horror before his head dove down and capturing Elrond’s organ in one swift move. Elrond gasped and threw his head back, his eyes rolling in their sockets as the merciless suction below him drove him nearly mad. Reaching down to grip his hands in Erestor’s hair, he tugged impatiently. Erestor did not relent and coaxed out a shuddering climax, making Elrond fall limply back to the rug on his back.

“I suppose I am not dead,” Elrond muttered as he opened his eyes and met Erestor’s amused ones.

“I don’t think that Mandos will call to people immersed in lust,” Erestor replied gravely, though his eyes held mirth.

He leant down to press a fond kiss on Elrond’s brow. He tied back the sashes on Elrond’s robes and helped him into a sitting position on the rug.

“May I return the favour?” Elrond suggested as he fingered Erestor’s jaw before claiming his lips in a kiss.

“No,” Erestor said bluntly, “The last time you did that, I got so carried away that the entire valley must have known of it.”

“It is not my fault that you are so vocal!” Elrond complained as he kissed Erestor again.

“I did not mean that,” Erestor smiled, “It is just that we cannot afford to do that in my study given my tendency to shout your name.”

They remained seated side-by-side staring into the fire until Elrond said, “I wish to see the children. I am excited, I have always loved elflings. Anoriel says that they have my features. It is strange that people see only what they look for.”

Erestor sighed and offered no reply. 

“I have discovered something,” Elrond said quietly.

“And that would be?” Erestor yawned lazily as he flopped back onto the rug on his back.

“You have the longest eyelashes of anyone I have ever seen,” Elrond smirked before bending to kiss the said eyelashes. Erestor groaned in disgust at the compliment, but pulled Elrond to lie beside him on the soft rug.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

“Twins,” Thranduil said thoughtfully as he removed his crown and placed it on the assigned cushion, “That explains the difficult labour she had. Celeborn and Anoriel were very worried.”

Galadriel nodded as she helped him out of the heavy formal robes, “And am I to understand that you have not slept in the last five days while I had been away?”

“Certainly,” Thranduil shrugged wearily, “The nightmares seem to a personal gift from Irmo, the lord of dreams himself.”

The dreams had worsened after three orc incursions. He had wanted to seek Erestor’s counsel. But the chief-counsellor was still in a depressed mood after the affair with Celebrían. Thranduil shook his head as he thought of the elegant handwriting of his friend conveying the news.

 

“Ernil-nîn,

At this moment, I have condemned myself to be the worst of beings on Middle-Earth. You know, Elrond loves me. And I love him. Yet, I was foolish enough to be caught drunk in my own bed and taken advantage of rather thoroughly by Celebrían.

It was a few days after our midnight-meeting last year. I am sorry that I have concealed the truth so long. I had decided to hide the dark secret in my own heart till the end. Elrond was very understanding, I don’t think I would have kept my sanity had it not been for his gentle reasoning, explaining that it was not entirely my fault. 

I wish I could have had your company and counsel now. Things will never be the same as in Lindon, will it, my prince?

And yes, the reason I write now, is predictably because of a missive from Lothlórien stating that Celebrían is with child. 

I really wish I could go back to my mother’s womb and stay there till the end…that I had never existed.”

 

“Come to bed,” Galadriel said sternly, “We can discuss the matters of my estrangement from my daughter, who wisely took advantage of her husband’s secret love, in the morning after you have slept.” 

“How did you know I was going to broach that topic?” Thranduil smiled as he plopped down onto the bed. It was not as luxurious as his marriage-bed in the royal chambers. But right now, he could have slept on a pile of hay and not cared at all.

She came around to the other side and lay down beside him, pulling up the covers to their chest.

“I seem to have some wisdom left in the midst of all my follies,” she retorted, “Anyway, she said that I was not welcome to even look upon the elflings,” her voice shivered slightly, “She would have said more if he had not been there.”

“I don’t think ‘Bría will ever forgive you for your actions, but you have saved her life as well as the life of her children now. It is redemption,” he rested his head on her bosom, “And Celeborn is another matter.”

She shook underneath him, but did not speak. 

“You know very well that you cannot avoid him, you cannot forget the past too. Whatever compromise you manage to reach, it will be temporary. I am not doubting your love for each other,” he sighed as her fingers convulsively clenched his hand, “I merely mean that too much has happened in the past. You cannot just forget everything and start anew.”

“Can I for a few moments pretend that I am not what I am, a heiress of kinslayers who swore that she would go against the Valar to win redemption for her kin; a mother who pushed her daughter into the worst marriage; a wife who has never done the right by her mate?” she asked hollowly.

Thranduil did not reply, he raised his head from her breast and then gathered her frail, shaking form into his hands. Their eyes met, and she collapsed against his chest wracked by silent sobs. As he held her, not for the first time he wondered if Glorfindel had been true. Did the Valar really hate the house of Finwë?

 

“I am pleased that you have escorted my law-son to our lands,” Celeborn bowed to Glorfindel before clasping his hand familiarly.

“Drop the formality, Celeborn,” Glorfindel shrugged, “We have fought together.”

“How is Erestor taking all of this?” Celeborn moved away to the couch and sat down wearily. Glorfindel noticed that his hair lacked its usual lustre, and the soft glow that seemed to characterise Celeborn’s skin was also absent. 

“He blames himself, he blames the Dorwinion, but he has never blamed your daughter,” Glorfindel sighed, “Celeborn, matters being what they are, I must speak as someone who has always had a parental interest in him. This situation is over, let her return to the valley until the elflings can be weaned. Then she can choose as she wishes.”

“You hate my daughter,” Celeborn said flatly.

“I was once her friend in the valley, sympathising and aiding her cause with a stubborn Elrond. It was I who took her to Erestor, so that she might enlist his counsel too. He had always kept his distance after Gildor’s visit,” Glorfindel shot a dark, questioning glance at Celeborn.

“I am sorry,” Celeborn buried his hands in his lap, “It was my sole intention then that Elrond should suffer as much as my child did in this marriage.”

“It is in the past, and nothing can be changed,” Glorfindel said reasonably, “What are your wishes?”

“That she be treated with the respect due to her station in the valley. That Elrond and you not berate her for this,” Celeborn sighed, “And that, if at any point, a row arises, you will send for me. I am quite capable of raising my grandchildren.”

“And then what are Galadriel’s wishes?” Glorfindel asked quietly, “After all, she instigated the marriage, not you.”

“Our wishes concur,” Celeborn said proudly, his sapphire eyes burning with steady conviction, “I would never make a decision in my daughter’s life without consulting her mother.”

The Balrog Slayer sighed, he would never comprehend Celeborn’s married life. Nobody probably would.

 

Elrond bowed and approached his wife. She was seated on a couch, her hands twined on her lap, her blue eyes slightly apprehensive. It took him a second’s long pause to remind himself that vengeance was not his to consider now. He smiled politely and took a seat across her.

A young maid brought the two elflings in, Elrond rose to his feet in wonderment and warm pride as he gazed down at the sleeping infants. So alike even in their sleep. Their right hands were clasped together and he felt a pang of misery long suppressed as he thought of his own twin. 

Their complexion was typically Noldorin, with sharp features and black hair. Their eyes were dark grey in reverie. He felt a sense of marvel looking upon them. Tentatively he bent down to press a kiss upon their intertwined hands. Would that they would never be parted. Would that they would never know grief…

“They will,” Celebrían said calmly, “My mother delivered them, and was the first to hold them. Her taint would have seeped in.”

Elrond ignored that and asked instead, “Who was the first?”

“I am not sure, you will have to ask my father,” she said uneasily, “I named them, though. Elladan and Elrohir. Are you happy with the names?”

“Indeed,” Elrond smiled as he looked at the sleeping infants, “They will live up to the names, I am sure.”

“Elrond,” Celeborn entered with a tense smile, “I see you have met the young ones.”

“My heirs,” Elrond nodded, “They are the most beautiful elflings I have ever seen!”

“Yes,” Celeborn sighed, he came to stand by the cradle and whispered, “Inseparable they are even now. Let me introduce you to Elladan, your elder heir and Elrohir, the younger. Though it was only a few heartbeats of difference.”

“How do you tell them apart?” Elrond asked curiously.

“I can sense their souls,” Celeborn shrugged, “I don’t think I can tell them apart from their appearance. I will tie a red band on Elladan’s hand and a green band on Elrohir’s. I hope that will help you.”

Elrond wondered about Celeborn’s hidden talents. He had always known that the Silver Tree was a powerful elf in his own right. Celeborn had to have some allure other than his handsome features to capture Galadriel’s heart. 

“I will leave you now,” Celebrían excused herself, “I need to see to a few things.”

“Elrond,” Celeborn said quietly as his daughter left the talan, “I know this is not sufficient. But I apologize for all that my child has done.”

“I know, Celeborn,” Elrond smiled sadly, “But the children are worth everything. I love them already. For them, I am indebted to your daughter. What news of Lady Galadriel?”

“She is well,” Celeborn said fretfully, “I do hope that she can attend the feast to celebrate the elflings’ birth. Glorfindel told me that you would wish to have it in the valley. I have no dispute with that. It would be tough to conduct a ceremony here, what with Amroth’s temporary abdication. Anoriel is already bearing the brunt of the administration.”

“I will ask Erestor and have the date set. Maybe after Amroth has taken charge here again. Because we dearly wish Anoriel to be present,” Elrond said cordially.

 

“My Lord,” Lindir’s voice was slightly apprehensive, “A word, if I may.”

“Of course,” Erestor deviated from the path and entered the garden which Lindir was tending to, “What is it, mellon-nîn?”

“The young guard from Lothlórien, whom Celeborn has entrusted to our care for a few months,” Lindir said quietly, his eyes on the leaves he had been pruning carefully.

“Rúmil,” Erestor offered, “That was his name, I think. What of him? I have not seen him around the last week.”

“Melpomaen says that the guard is in love with Lord Celeborn,” Lindir said softly, his eyes fixed on his fingers, “It is not my place to say this, but I thought that you should be told.”

Erestor schooled his shocked features into his usual calm and thoughtfully straightened his robes. The young guard, who seemed barely older than Elrond, how could such a young elf fall in love with Celeborn? Unless….Erestor cursed in dwarvish.

“Call him,” Erestor said quietly, “I will be in my study.”

“Yes,” Lindir said with a slight nod, “You will spare his feelings, I hope.”

“Do you have to ask?” Erestor smiled, “Even if I am younger than him, I have had more experience with matters of the heart. Though I wish I had not.”

Lindir turned back to his pruning uncomfortably. Erestor shook his head half-amusedly; the elder elf had never been comfortable with personal matters. Lindir probably knew of his relationship with Elrond, but had never questioned it or even acknowledged it.

“I wish you will find your own happiness, My Lord,” Lindir’s musical voice was so soft that Erestor doubted if he had really spoken.

But then the elf turned and met his gaze uneasily. 

Erestor bowed and said, “I wish the same for you, Lindir. It is time to let your past fade.”

“I am a kinslayer,” Lindir smiled bitterly, “Who will consent to love me?”

Erestor wondered why his entire life seemed to revolve around sorting tangled hearts, he took a deep breath and approached Lindir. 

Placing a slender hand on the other elf’s shoulder, he said firmly, “Do you truly think so?”

Lindir’s eyes held fear and uncertainty, “I don’t have your courage to keep going and take second chances at love.”

“Isn’t the courage we have better utilized in love than for the rest of the mundane matters?” Erestor smiled warmly, “It is worth that, Lindir,” his eyes darkened with memory and regrets, “Worth everything.”

“Do you truly believe so?” Lindir’s voice was amazed, “I know what you have sacrificed and suffered. Is it worth that?”

“That and more,” Erestor said with quiet conviction.

* * *

“Rúmil,” Erestor smiled politely and waved the warrior into a chair across his desk. 

He leant back and observed the pale features of the Galadhrim elf. Handsome, fair-haired and hazel-eyed, as almost all the Sylvans were. Slightly broad-shouldered. This elf seemed to be an experienced warrior. Defiant hazel eyes met his own.

“Lord Erestor,” Rúmil said derisively, “If you would get on with whatever it is, I can return to my work. I have better things to do than to serve as an object of scrutiny to a kinslayer’s son.”

Erestor suppressed a long suffering sigh and instead said calmly, “I merely wished to enquire if you would have any qualms attending the celebrations in honour of the young princes, Celeborn’s grandsons.” 

He felt Lindir’s fears confirmed when a flash of pain appeared in the other elf’s eyes at the mention of Celeborn’s name. But Rúmil did not reply as he sullenly stared at the long quill in Erestor’s hands.

“Lady Galadriel may attend,” Erestor said quietly, watching Rúmil’s features carefully.

“What is that to me?” Rúmil snorted, “My orders were to return when Lord Celeborn wishes it so.”

“Assuming that you shall have no issues with attending the celebrations, may I ask you to escort Lady Galadriel while she is here?” Erestor asked courteously. 

Rúmil threw him a filthy look before murmuring, “Bloody Noldor! I hate this circumventing. What is it that you want? Ask a direct question for once!”

Erestor smiled at the outburst before saying quietly, “I am the chief-counsellor of the Noldor. I consider it my duty to hold our alliances intact. You know, as well as I, that Galadriel is extremely unpredictable in the matter of her husband. I want your word that you shall not spoil the relations between them, which are currently cordial.”

“They have reunited?” Rúmil’s expression was aghast.

“Yes,” Erestor said gently, “At least according to the latest rumours.”

“He promised me,” Rúmil breathed. He shook his head and said more coldly, “You have my word, Lord Erestor. I will not interfere. I will not approach Lord Celeborn in any manner.”

“That is well,” Erestor tilted his head gracefully, “Now, if you would not mind, would you care to spar awhile with me? It is not everyday that I have the honour to meet a valiant Sylvan warrior.”

Rúmil narrowed his eyes and observed Erestor closely. There was a faint sparkle of mischief in those black eyes. Rúmil frowned, he could never attempt to understand the chief-counsellor. As a rule, Rúmil hated the Noldor. But he would be an utter fool to offend a Noldor lord within his own realm.

Seeing no choice, Rúmil nodded saying, “As you wish, Lord Erestor.”

“Excellent,” Erestor smiled and got to his feet elegantly, “Come, then. Walk with me to the grounds.”

“Your sword?” Rúmil asked curiously, for the long red robes draped on the slender form showed no trace of a concealed sword.

“I am not in practice of carrying my sword with me in the valley,” Erestor admitted, “I will obtain one from the other trainees.”

“I find it difficult to spar with any sword but my own,” Rúmil remarked as they stepped into the sunshine. 

“When you have faced wraiths and slain orcs with your sword, my friend,” Erestor said humourlessly, “Then never will you lift it against a fellow elf. The sword is tainted by hate and malice. My sword is meant merely for the combat.” 

Rúmil wanted to point out that the kinslayers had killed both orc and elf with the same sword, but he wisely resisted his impulse.

They faced each other on the practice ground. Erestor had managed to procure a sword from another warrior and was now testing its fineness. 

“How did you know?” Rúmil asked intrigued as they completed the ritual greetings, “That I had a relationship with Celeborn?”

Erestor smiled as he parried Rúmil’s blow easily and replied, “I did not. But fortunately, some of my friends have better discerning abilities than I do.”

Rúmil did not answer as he concentrated on forcing Erestor into retreating defence. Somehow, it seemed too easy. Rúmil frowned, he had seen Erestor fight in the last alliance, reckless and daring. The lazy parries that his attack was now met with seemed out of character. The black eyes were watching him amusedly.

“You must think me foolish and wanton,” Rúmil murmured as he tried to breach Erestor’s defences.

“Lord Celeborn has slept with half of elvendom,” Erestor laughed as he held his defence easily without trying to press his advantage.

Rúmil blushed and muttered, “It is not that. I must tell you that I did not consider him a conquest or anything of the sort. He was my first and claimed more than merely my body,” Erestor’s defence broke for the first time, as the counsellor looked up startled at this revelation.

Erestor took a calming breath and quickly parried a crafty move of his opponent. He said quietly, “I did not know. I am sorry for seeming callous, but I have to ask. How could you possibly do that?”

“He told me that his marriage was over. Their bond was broken. I had no reason to distrust him,” Rúmil shrugged, “He was wise, noble, handsome and valiant. Half of us who returned from the battle owe our lives to him. I did not think that someone like him would use me for so many years and then cast me away like offal. Proves that I know nothing of elven nature.”

Erestor said reassuringly, “It was not your fault. If he truly told you that their marriage was over, then there would be no reason for you to not trust him, I daresay. Yet all the years you spent with him, are but a single droplet compared to the years he spent with the lady. Theirs is a marriage that has lasted millennia. Such bonds cannot be broken.”

“You speak with such surety that I should not be surprised if you have a personal experience,” Rúmil enquired quietly.

“I was married,” Erestor smiled, though his eyes held no mirth, “I know the hold of these bonds.”

“Is that why you have never courted again?” Rúmil asked shocked, “Does your bond still hold true to the fallen king?”

Erestor winced at the unfeeling words, but he reasoned that since he had been callous in handling Rúmil’s matters, he should expect no less.

“I did not mean to offend,” Rúmil said hastily, “It is just that I have a long ingrained practice of not respecting the Noldor.”

“Why is that?” Erestor asked curious, “I confess that we are responsible for all that you may accuse us of. But have we not honourably died for our causes?”

“My mother was killed in the kinslayings of Doriath,” Rúmil said quietly. Erestor averted his eyes. Rúmil continued, “They say that she was killed by the second son of Fëanor.”

Erestor stopped any pretence of sparring and faced him. Rúmil noted with abstract fascination that Erestor’s face had become ashen pale.

“I cannot possibly repair my father’s deeds, even if there is nothing I wish for more,” Erestor said after a long moment, “I understand now why your brother Haldir has always taken pains to insult me. And I understand why you dislike my race. You must be cursing us each moment of your days.”

“Yes,” Rúmil sighed as he lowered his sword, “I wish I could be more forgiving. Your father’s deeds were not yours.”

“My father had no choice,” Erestor said simply as he sheathed the sword, “None of them had. If it helps you, I can say that they hated themselves more than you ever could. In the end all they had was the self-loathing.”

“I do not wish to speak of this mutually painful matter anymore,” Rúmil said truthfully.

Erestor bowed and called for an aide to direct Rúmil to the halls of dining. Sighing, he watched them disappear into the house. Then he turned and walked to the Bruinen, his thoughts dark.

He had discarded his clothes and slipped into the cool water when a voice hailed him. Morosely, he emerged from beneath the water to see Melpomaen striding to the shore purposefully.

“Lord Erestor,” the breathless elf panted from his exertion.

“You should not run at midnoon,” Erestor chastised, “If it is some trade agreement or other, just ask them to meet me tomorrow. I am done for today.”

“As you wish,” Melpomaen bowed and turned back to climb the slope. Then he turned again and asked less confidently, “My Lord?”

Erestor opened his eyes, which he had closed a moment ago to shut out the world. Melpomaen looked insecure and shy. Let it not be another matter of the heart! Erestor thought fervently as he looked enquiringly at the younger elf.

“I…I wanted to ask you something,” Melpomaen asked in a mumble that Erestor had to practically lipread. 

“Yes, young lord,” Erestor sighed as he wondered why the Valar loved tormenting him with this situation always.

“I think I am in love,” Melpomaen was not looking at Erestor, preferring to concentrate on his own feet.

“I think I should come out of the water to discuss such things,” Erestor said evenly as he swam to the shore and pulled on his robes. He was in a foul temper. But he had to listen to this confession. Melpomaen had always been his ward.

“You are not shocked?” Melpomaen asked stunned.

“No,” Erestor smiled gently as he sat down on a boulder and pulled the younger elf to the ground as well, “It takes more horrifying news to shock me. This is just pleasantly surprising.”

Melpomaen smiled nervously and whispered, “I don’t know how to act, I mean it is all so confusing. I cannot keep my eyes off this person. It is making me go mad,” he buried his face in Erestor’s lap.

Erestor played with the dark brown hair of the younger elf thoughtfully before asking, “Is this attraction returned by him?”

“I don’t know. He is always so kind and polite. But he is that to everyone,” Melpomaen said disconsolately, “I don’t think he has ever thought of me in that manner at all. He is too noble,” his voice hitched as he asked suddenly, “How did you know that it was male?”

Erestor fought down the temptation to laugh and said kindly, “I know you well, Melpomaen, I have never seen you even talk with a lady.”

Melpomaen laughed weakly before whispering, “I don’t know what to do, My Lord. Its so confusing.”

“Who is this lucky elf?” Erestor asked compassionately, all the time wondering if Elrond had been this distraught and insecure in the beginning when he had realized his true feelings for Erestor, “I promise you that I will personally talk with him and make sure that he gives you a fair chance. As if anyone in their right mind could resist one as handsome as you, young lord.”

“I am afraid that he will not think so,” Melpomaen said in a muffled voice, “He can have the best of all if he so wishes. He is a legend.”

Erestor was worried if the lad was talking of Elrond, hastily he masked his discomposure and asked, “Is it Elrond Half-Elven?”

“No!” Melpomaen seemed scandalized, “He is married! Why would I ever fall in love with a married person? It is against all our rules!”

“It is indeed against all our rules,” Erestor muttered darkly, “But it is not impossible, young lord. However I am glad that you have chosen to abide by our rules. So tell me,” he assumed a lighter tone, “Who is this legend of an elf that makes you blush so charmingly right now?”

“Lord Glorfindel,” the answer was a whisper that Erestor thought for a moment that the wind was playing tricks with him.

“What did you say?” he asked quietly.

“It is Glorfindel,” Melpomaen said more confidently as he raised his head to meet Erestor’s shocked gaze.

The hopeful expression within those eyes made Erestor flinch. For one wild moment, he felt like diving back into the river and ending this conversation. To pretend that he had never heard.

“My Lord?” Melpomaen’s voice was subdued, “Is there something wrong?”

“Sometimes,” Erestor said hollowly, “I feel that there is nothing right in Middle-Earth.”

Melpomaen looked positively frightened and shrank back. Erestor shook his head and said gently, “I will speak with him as soon as he returns, Mel. He is, as you said, the noblest elf in Imladris. I will make sure that he talks with you regarding this and gives you an answer, a positive answer,” he said boldly.

“For a moment, I thought that you were upset,” Melpomaen said scared, “Is it the age difference?”

“No,” Erestor said heartily, “Age does not matter,” he did not tell Melpomaen that the reason why Glorfindel was unmarried was because he feared the age difference between Menelwen and himself.

“Thank you,” the younger elf sighed, “I will leave you to your swimming then.”

Erestor watched Melpomaen walk away before he stripped his robes and again dove into the water, shouting the foulest dwarvish curses he could think of. When he stopped cursing, he started thinking. Melpomaen would have to be diverted. Someone should pursue him. Someone who would be actually open to marriage. Or would Glorfindel deal with it on his own?

“My Lady Elbereth,” Erestor glanced at the sky, “It must seem very amusing from there, I daresay.”

* * *

“Are you speaking to yourself?” a familiar voice resounded in the woods. 

Erestor smiled inspite of his foul mood and hailed, “Come out, you devil!”

“You come out of the river yourself,” Gildor said companionably as he emerged from the woods and sat down beside the water. 

His angular features had sharpened and his figure looked weary. The simple tunic and leggings he wore were bloodstained and torn. His armour looked as if he had been in several dozen skirmishes since morning. Bruises and scars mottled his face and exposed wrists.

“The orcs are reckless,” he said off-handed, as Erestor raised a questioning eyebrow at his appearance, Gildor’s lips curved into a smirk as he said, “It seems my fate to come upon you in this river. A very delectable sight to a travel-weary warrior, if I may say so.”

Erestor snorted saying, “Join me. You look rather unappealing for an elf of such illustrious heritage.”

“Gladly,” Gildor tore away his armour and removed his tunic and leggings before jumping in, “Will your healer object?”

“The said healer will arrive with his wife in a couple of days weather-permitting. Glorfindel is with him,” Erestor sighed, “I have been lacking proper company for many a day.”

“I assume that I can supply that deficiency,” Gildor said solemnly, “But I am not Thranduil.”

“I can see that,” Erestor ran a cool eye over Gildor’s half-submerged form, “I have swum with him too. He was definitely fairer of form!”

“You sing his praises too highly!” Gildor laughed, “Now what were you cursing for, when I came upon you?” 

“Love affairs…I am a chief-counsellor and all I have to counsel are love affairs,” Erestor groaned despicably.

“Frightful,” Gildor sympathized, “And who are these ardent souls?”

“Well, to start with Celeborn and Galadriel seem to have reached one of their temporary understandings,” Erestor remarked.

“That is good news, is it not?” Gildor asked surprised.

“It would be, if Celeborn had not bedded a naïve Rúmil for all these years saying that their vows were absolved. The fool thinks he is in love with Celeborn,” Erestor pondered glumly.

Gildor gave a low whistle of shock before murmuring, “The idiot should have had better sense than to get entangled in their marriage. Celeborn is not above petty lies and manipulation to have his needs met.”

“None of us are,” Erestor said half-heartedly, in a weak attempt to defend Celeborn. He shook his head and continued drearily, “And Amroth is in a quandary. He writes long letters seeking counsel. It is not unlike the epistles that his father used to bombard us with during the war in Eregion. Amroth wishes to follow my decision in choosing between love and duty. He is too timid to make his own choice!”

“That is a dangerous love,” Gildor commented, dunking into the water to wet his dirty, matted hair, “I wonder why the males of his line are so unwilling to make choices and stand by them.”

“And lastly, our young ward, whom we rescued from a bunny after a similar moon-lit swim in this same river; Melpomaen, he fancies himself in love with dear Glor,” Erestor ended his gloomy tale.

“I was in the Havens, to meet Círdan regarding the matter you had confided in me,” Gildor said sighing, “Your sister, she was there. These days, she is presiding as the hostess of Círdan’s castle.”

“They were close always. As father and daughter,” Erestor offered, “After Glor, she would run to Círdan with her problems.”

“She does not stay with Galdor anymore in Lindon, saying that the place holds too dear memories. But you don’t need me to infer that her real reason is much different,” Gildor said dejectedly.

“Glor still loves her,” Erestor confessed bluntly, “I still pound my head onto my desk every time I think of that. I should have dragged him to her and made them forcibly marry. She has never forgiven me that I took his side. The child?”

“Is with her. Círdan dotes on them both,” Gildor said quietly.

Erestor took a deep breath and said lightly, “Come, out of this water. I am likely to sprout fins if I persist in submerging myself in this river for so many hours a day. And you are clean enough to enter the hall without risking anyone’s wrath.”

They walked to the hall of fire and ate silently, their easy companionship of years making a comfortable silence fall on them. Afterwards they retired to the library. Erestor poured out a generous measure of Gildor’s favourite ale and handed it to him silently.

“You will not join?” Gildor leant back in the comfortable chair.

“I would love to,” Erestor smiled, “But not ale. It has always been the Dorwinion for me…despite its hazards.”

Gildor watched him get himself a goblet of the rich wine before remarking, “As reckless as ever. What if I decide to get you drunk and take advantage?”

Erestor turned a shade pale before saying reprovingly, “You should not rub salt into the fresh wounds…But to your question, I can only answer this : You will not get pregnant!”

“Touché,” Gildor said with grudging admiration as Erestor sipped at the wine with his usual poise. 

“What bothers you, other than everything I know?” Erestor asked after a few moments of pleasant silence, “Don’t tell me that you too have been ensnared in a matter of love!”

Gildor laughed weakly, it was unnerving when the chief-counsellor read his deepest secrets so easily. 

Erestor’s eyes narrowed in alarm as he said, “It is a matter of love then?”

“Nothing of the sort,” Gildor swallowed his ale hastily, “I am merely confused. For the past few months, I have been receiving letters by a handsome dove,” Erestor nodded, “And these letters are most amorous, sexually explicit, shall we say?”

“And who is the sender?” Erestor said with hard-suppressed mirth and disbelief, “That he or she is insane is certain. To send you of all elves!”

Gildor shot him a withering glare before saying, “It is a male…but I am not sure if it is an elf. My wanderings take me through many a human realm. Still I hazard my guess on an elf, mortals are rather against our laws and customs.”

“I know that too well,” Erestor muttered, thinking of Isildur. He did regret that Thranduil had eased the fool’s death.

“And,” Gildor continued quickly, in an obvious try to shake Erestor out of the dark thoughts, “This person is very determined. Sixty-five letters in six months. He says that he would meet me soon. Here is one of the less graphical letters,” he handed a scroll to Erestor.

“Well,” Erestor said with a slight blush as he glanced through the contents, “I am frightened by the thought of the more graphical letters. This seems to be a work of the Sindar. As you know, they delight in these weird ways of courting. It is not in any hand I recognize.”

“I wouldn’t mind bedding a Sinda,” Gildor muttered, “Damn handsome, all of them. But I do hate their arrogance. The way they blame us for all the evil that walks on Middle-Earth.”

“It cannot be anyone in the Havens, or Lindon,” Erestor said as he smelt the letter carefully, “There is no smell of the sea. I think I can smell mallorn blossoms. Must be from Lothlórien. I thought that your wandering never takes you there!”

“I rarely visit there,” Gildor agreed, “I think this must be sent for someone else. The messenger dove seems to be infatuated with me. Faulty delivery.”

“You sound disappointed,” Erestor grinned, “I will not let this rest until I find the elf, mellon-nîn. It has been long, boring days of late.”

 

Erestor retired to his rooms after seeing to the patrols. Gildor had complained of exhaustion and left him alone. Hoping that his friend would enjoy a good night’s sleep after Valar knew how long, Erestor began to stand up from his desk. The last of his personal correspondence was finished finally for today.

Untying his robes, he shrugged out of them. He was about to enter his bedchamber when the door to the foyer opened loudly.

“Lord Erestor,” Mithrandir’s voice was grave.

“Mithrandir,” Erestor bit back a curse as he gratefully thanked the cold morning that had compelled him to wear a thick, ankle-length under robe, “What brings you into my chamber at this time?”

“I should have knocked,” the wizard said apologetically, “But the aides said that it was not yet time for you to retire. And I wanted your counsel immediately.”

“Please,” Erestor moved to take the wizard’s cloak, “It is not of any consequence. My doors are usually unlocked,” he drew a chair to the fire and bowed gracefully. 

“I am in desperate need of some warmth,” the wizard remarked as he sat down, “The Misty Mountains are cruelly cold.”

“Shall I get you something to eat or drink?” Erestor asked politely as he leant back on his desk.

“No,” Mithrandir said quickly, “I am well,” he took a deep breath, “I had to ask you of Lindir, your gardener. Glorfindel said that he was once a thrall of the southerners, the wild men.”

“True,” Erestor said quietly, as he wondered where this line of enquiry would lead to, “Lindir is an extremely private person and as a friend of his, I would wish to know what made you ask me this.”

“I need all details of the wild-men, they are multiplying in Harad,” Mithrandir muttered, “And in the towns on the trail from Imladris to Lindon. This is no good. I have suspicions that they are in league with orcs.”

“That is serious,” Erestor said wearily, “But Lindir will not tell you willingly of them. Elrond and Thranduil rescued him. And the prince told me that the condition in which they found him was worse than anything we could imagine. To this day, Lindir does not join us in the hall of fire if we have human company. However, I will get you the required information somehow.”

“I knew I could find the answers if I came to you. What of Isildur’s line?” Mithrandir asked.

“I don’t know much,” Erestor said bluntly, “I hate Isildur for an infinite number of reasons. While his heirs may not be responsible, I find it much better to keep away from them.”

“I will go now,” Mithrandir sighed, “I need to speak with the Rohirrim again. And Saruman wishes to take charge of the Isengard fortress.”

“That fortress is spooked,” Erestor remarked, “Glorfindel refused to enter it when we were returning home after the war. I trust his instincts. They are always right.”

“I too sensed something malevolent,” Mithrandir said tiredly, “But I assumed that it was the Fangorn.”

“Fangorn is old, and understandably bears long grudges. Still it is inherently harmless,” Erestor said thoughtfully.

“I will travel to Eriador too,” Mithrandir said more happily, “There are creatures called Halflings….wonderfully hospitable race!”

“You must tell me more,” Erestor asked enthusiastically, “I have heard tales, but they are vague.”

“I will,” Mithrandir laughed, “But first you must give me the instructions to reach Eregion.”

“Why would you want to go there? It is a dead city, a city that I set fire to with my own hands,” Erestor said quietly, his eyes becoming dark with long standing regrets.

“Celebrimbor,” Mithrandir said softly, “They say he is not dead. He made the rings. If we can but find him…..”

“Ironic,” Erestor said sadly, his tone reminiscent, “I watched him being dragged by the wraiths. I watched the orcs take their pleasure from him. He was proud, he did not heed my pleas to leave. I begged him on my very knees at the end…there was nothing that I said which would sway him. Like a coward, I had to set fire to the city and escape alone. No, Mithrandir,” his eyes became focussed on the present again, “He is dead. No elf can endure Mordor for so many centuries.”

“He was of Fëanor’s blood,” Mithrandir said confidently, “He was a fighter…and a survivor.”

“He was a fighter,” Erestor conceded, “But not a survivor. He fought to his death, I believe. Sauron could not have broken his spirit. But he is gone.”

After a few moments, he said, “I will give you the maps of Eregion. Take heed of your own safety though. We have never been able to reclaim those lands from the orcs.”

“Why didn’t you search for him?” Mithrandir asked curious, “I thought that you would have searched after the war.”

“Elrond had dreams,” Erestor explained, “He saw Celebrimbor alive, until we claimed victory. After that he had no visions. We took it as a sign that Celebrimbor had died finally. Thranduil wished to enter Mordor and confirm….But, we had seen enough of the brutal torments that the prisoners suffered. Elrond could not let him enter Mordor alone. Not after Isildur’s traitorous behaviour. I was too sick and on the deathbed, otherwise I would have gone with the prince.”

“You still call him the prince,” Mithrandir remarked amusedly.

“He is, to us,” Erestor smiled.

* * *

Erestor examined the arrangements. Perfect, he decided. As if on cue, the sound of hooves reached him. Glancing once more into the mirror, he brushed back a strand that had fallen onto his face. 

When he reached the courtyard, the riders had already dismounted. Elrond was walking towards him hastily, a bundle in his arms. Erestor met his gaze and then lowered his eyes to the squirming bundle.

“Meet Elladan,” Elrond said proudly as he introduced the crying elfling. Erestor glanced at him for reassurance and then held out his arms. Elrond transferred the child, laughing happily as Elladan took a firm handful of Erestor’s fine silk robe, tearing it from the seams.

“Strong,” Erestor bent down to press a soft kiss upon the dimpled fist, “We have one feisty elfling. Where is his twin?”

“This is Elrohir,” the female voice made Erestor look up startled. He bit his inner cheek as he calmed himself. He was the chief-counsellor, not a stable boy. 

He smiled politely and said courteously, “I am pleased to welcome you back to Imladris, My Lady Celebrían.”

Elrond took a protesting Elladan from Erestor and motioned impatiently at Celebrían, who transferred the second twin to Erestor.

Elrohir did not cry as Erestor gently pressed his lips to a soft cheek. A delighted burble of laughter erupted from the elfling’s throat causing Erestor to laugh helplessly. He had never seen a sight so wonderful as this laughing elfling. 

Glorfindel came to stand by him and whispered, “Insanity is but a step away!”

“They are beautiful!” Erestor proclaimed hotly as he bent to kiss the elfling again. 

He turned hastily to enter the house and beckoned Lindir to attend to the guests including Celeborn and Anoriel. Celeborn smiled rather nervously at Erestor as their gazes met warily. 

 

After the elflings had been entrusted to their caretakers, Erestor rushed to Anoriel. Elrond, he saw, was rather unpleasantly occupied with Celebrían. Erestor had absolutely no wish to interrupt their conversation.

“’Restor!” Anoriel hugged him tightly, “It has been too long…”

“My thoughts exactly,” he held her back and took in her exhausted features, “Thranduil promised to come.”

“Yes,” she sighed, “But there is some meeting with the lake men,” she smiled, “You look terribly thin.”

“I always do,” Erestor laughed, “Now tell me of all the scrapes that you have been up to with our prince since we last met. He did tell me of your enthusiastic attempts to make an heir.”

“I did read your book,” she laughed, “I am waiting to try those methods when I see him.”

“You have not rehearsed with anyone?” Erestor asked tongue-in-cheek.

“Erestor Maglorion!” she said scandalized, “You are worse than that husband of mine! Are you offering?”

“No,” Erestor bowed hastily, “I have had enough of feminine charm to last me forever! You may ask Glorfindel however, he is gallant and chivalrous…a ladies’ elf!”

“My brother is alone there…my mother is with him,” she said uneasily, “But I have fears.”

“You will not return with Thranduil?” he asked concernedly, “I had assumed you would. That is what he told me.”

“If Galadriel returns to Lothlórien, then I can leave. She is an able administrator; whatever her faults are,” she sighed.

 

Erestor slipped into his chambers at noon and quickly knocked on Elrond’s side-door, which immediately opened. Elrond had a slightly harassed expression as he stepped back to let Erestor in.

“She is a devil,” Elrond hissed, “Why is Mithrandir searching in all the wrong places for Sauron? I know he is hidden in her!”

“What now?” Erestor asked amusedly though he was slightly worried.

“She has told me that her mother should not be allowed at this eve’s celebration even if she came with the delegation from Greenwood,” Elrond pouted, “I told her to inform you. Knowing your elusiveness, I hoped she might not get a chance.”

“Hmm…As interesting as her demand is,” Erestor leant forward slightly, so that their noses touched, “I believe I consider your lips more attractive, especially when you pout so,” he closed the gap and Elrond moaned desperately gripping Erestor’s neck with his hands.

They broke apart and Erestor massaged his throat muttering, “You have left me no option but to wear high collar for the party this eve.”

Elrond did not reply as he tore apart Erestor’s under robes with more reckless strength than Elladan. Erestor followed his lead and began divesting Elrond of his tunic. As soon as Elrond’s collar bone was in view, Erestor pressed his advantage and lowered his mouth onto it, blazing a trail of kisses downward.

Elrond’s moans soon gave away into hoarse cries as he was pushed onto the bed and Erestor straddled him silently, not relinquishing the ministrations of his lips. Elrond complained with a whimper as Erestor finally let go of his firm hold. 

“Oil,” Erestor muttered in explanation, “I shall be back.”

“It is done,” Elrond pulled Erestor back atop his prone figure, “I took advance measures.”

“Wanton,” Erestor sighed happily as he resumed his tasks driving Elrond to the precipice of pleasure before falling along with him into the dull languor that followed it.

 

Celeborn was pacing in his room nervously. He had seen Rúmil earlier, and a pang of guilt had stabbed him. But the young elf had not even deigned to look at him. Celeborn wondered how he would solve the latest of his problems. A knock at his door stopped his pacing.

“Come in,” he called out. 

His breath caught for a moment as the handsome, robe clad features of Erestor appeared in his line of sight. Erestor, Celeborn mused absently, had a natural poise that made even the simple, midnight blue robes look like royal raiment on him.

“I came to apologize for all that my drunken stupor had caused,” Erestor’s tone was measured as if he expected an unpredictable reaction any moment.

“It is my fault. I told Gildor half-truths and sent him to the valley to disrupt your relationship,” Celeborn said sadly, “At least being older than you, I should have exercised more wisdom, caution and restraint.”

“I don’t see any need for an apology from you, Celeborn,” Erestor said firmly, “We fought together and you have saved my life many a time. I beg you to accept my apology and try to forgive the wrongs I have done to your family.”

“Ever the diplomat,” Celeborn said smiling wryly, “Apologies are better than confrontations. There is nothing to forgive, young lord.”

 

Elrond smiled as Erestor entered the hall accompanied by Anoriel. His dark robes were a stark contrast to his pale features haloed by obsidian hair. He seemed to be immersed in Anoriel’s tale-telling, his dark eyes warm as they roved over the room absently.

“A dance, Elrond?” Glorfindel asked cordially. 

“You are a slow dancer,” Elrond complained, but accepted his hand anyway. 

He had no wish to dance with his wife. And Celebrían herself was merrily dancing with Rúmil. So Elrond assumed that they had both breached protocol. He tried to avert his eyes from Erestor, who was now dancing with Anoriel with unusual sedateness. 

“Anoriel is a slow dancer,” Glorfindel pointed out helpfully. 

“Hmm…But Erestor usually hates slow dancing. I am jealous of her,” Elrond complained as Erestor executed a perfect romantic swoop, “Where is that prince?”

Elrond danced the next song with Gildor, which was a disaster. Gildor seemed to excel in stepping on Elrond’s toes at every critical turn. Finally, Elrond pressed a relieved kiss on Gildor’s cheek as the song ended.

“A dance, My Lord?” Elrond turned as he nodded and said, “Took you a long time.”

“You seemed to be enjoying the last one,” Erestor smiled as he took Elrond’s hand, “I have left her with Glor. They are both slow dancers. Now, I would prefer more passion in a dance.”

“I am not sure if I can give you that,” Elrond said as they began the dance, “Only Thranduil and you can dance like mating snakes and still stand on your feet at the end of the song.”

 

Glorfindel escaped out into the garden and moved towards the stables wondering why Erestor found it necessary to spoil his pleasant evening with a nonsensical task as calling the stable hand. But he had not refused. Erestor was in a charming mood. And Glorfindel had never been able to refuse him while he was in such a temper.

He cursed as he looked around in the deserted stable. 

“My Lord,” a timid voice enquired from the hayloft, “What are you seeking?”

“Melpomaen,” Glorfindel smiled graciously as a rosy face appeared from above, “Why aren’t you at the celebrations, young lord?”

The young elf said perplexed, “Lord Erestor asked me to fetch a scroll he had left behind in a hurry after his last inspection of the lofts here. I have been searching for the past one hour.”

“Oh!” Glorfindel gasped in dawning realization. There was no doubt, this seemed to be one of Erestor’s deplorable traps. He took a deep breath and said gently, “We should return to the celebrations. Come, I will tell Erestor to look for the scroll later.”

The young elf scampered down and stood before Glorfindel blushing slightly. The Balrog Slayer was so used to this reaction by hero-worshipping young elves that he paid it no second thought. But he did wonder why Melpomaen, whose professed hero was Erestor, was blushing at him. 

He fondly ruffled the hay strewn black tresses before saying, “All right then, we should return.”

“Yes, My Lord,” Melpomaen said softly, “You look wonderful.”

“As do you, young lord,” Glorfindel said easily, he made to open the door, only to find it firmly latched from outside. He frowned. Erestor would pay. 

“What is it, My Lord?” Melpomaen asked nervously, shifting from one foot to another.

“Nothing, young lord,” Glorfindel said reassuringly though internally, he was seething with anger, “Someone seems to have mistakenly locked us in.”

“OH!” Melpomaen’s hands covered his mouth as he took a step backwards.

“It is nothing to worry about,” Glorfindel said as he tried to put the frightened young elf at ease, “We can call for help.”

 

Anoriel clasped Erestor’s arm more tightly as they made their way deeper into the woods. 

“How much further?” she asked as a branch swiped her gown.

“Almost there,” he said absently as he tugged away the leaves from his robes. 

“Anor-nîn,” a soft, seductive voice that had been a regular in her dreams sounded. 

She shivered and clung to Erestor’s arm, pinching his wrist to make sure that it was not a dream. Thranduil emerged from within the woods, his golden hair tied back into a loose braid, a fond smile quirking his lips. There was a mischievous sparkle in his eyes as he looked at her hold on Erestor.

“Already unfaithful?” he said mildly.

“Indeed,” Erestor laughed as he extricated himself and moved forward to hug Thranduil tightly, “I am sorry that I have embraced you before she did. But I must return to the celebrations. Elrond waits. Anoriel knows the perfect place for more explanations. She will take you there. Welcome, Ernil-nîn.”

“Glad to see you, mellon-nîn,” Thranduil kissed Erestor’s cheeks and released him, “I would love to see Elrond and the others now, but I must first satiate certain unbridled desires.”

Erestor raised an eyebrow, “I will then leave you to that, my friends.”

Anoriel laughed as she reached up to kiss him passionately murmuring, “Ithil-nîn.” To her, the silver rays of the moon seemed to encase his figure in an aura. She breathed deeply of his familiar, yet, long absent scent and rested her head on his collar bone.

 

Celebrían looked on wonderingly at her husband dancing without a care. His dance partner, Erestor, seemed to enjoying as much as Elrond. Their moves were flawless, almost as if they could read each other’s minds. She frowned, no, it was merely because they were excellent dancers who had centuries of experience in dancing with each other. After all, she remembered, Erestor danced more wildly with Thranduil.

She was about to retire when she saw Elrond leaning subtly towards Erestor. The chief-counsellor’s eyes were closed, presumably, he was immersed in the melodious song. Her husband seemed just an inch away from kissing Erestor. 

She shrugged; Elrond seemed to have caught on Thranduil’s playfulness. Thranduil would not think twice before kissing her own father in a ball, she was sure. 

 

Celeborn walked in the gardens quietly, hoping that they would give him some soothing relief from the mad revelries inside the halls. As he inhaled the sickly, sweet scent of the roses, he thought of one scent that he would have loved to smell now. A scent of willow, of fresh sea and of ice. He took in a deep breath letting the memories of that scent soothe him. The faint memories were almost tangible, he mused. He looked up at the crescent moon above him. He raised his ring of marriage to his lips and kissed it.

 

Galadriel looked up at the moon and smiled reminiscently. They had first met under a crescent moon. She wondered if he remembered still.

“Fond memory?” Thalion’s voice was amused.

“Indeed,” she turned to face him, “Have you ever married, Thalion? No, I daresay, but have you fallen in love?”

“No,” he laughed, “But yes, I have fallen in love. A long time ago. And it was not under the crescent moon!”

She shook her head at his perceptiveness and asked, “What happened? Did my family spoil everything? Doriath? Sirion?”

“No, nothing like that,” he said simply, “The person I loved fell in love with another.”

“And rejected you?” she gasped, “How could anyone in their right sense do that?”

“Love has nothing to do with sense, Galadriel! You, of all people, should know that from experience. No, this person never knew of my love,” Thalion remarked, “And I never spoke of it to anyone.”

“Was it Lúthien?” she guessed. Thalion seemed to be in a pleasant mood, and she knew instinctively that he would not mind enduring her questions right now.

“No!” Thalion laughed as he looked up at the moon again, “Not the fair daughter of Thingol. I think I was the only one at court who was not in love with her.”

“Not Thingol?” she asked incredulously.

“You should stick to the mirrors and rings, Galadriel,” Thalion grinned wryly, “Guesswork seems not to be your talent.”

“I have all night to guess on,” she observed petulantly, “Was it male or female?”

“Male,” he answered warily, “That must narrow down your choices.”

“Hmm…How will I know of the devious workings of an ancient healer’s mind?” she complained, “Was it Daeron the minstrel?”

“I believe you will name each and every member of the court of Doriath,” he sighed, “Never mind, Galadriel. It was so long ago. And no, it was not Daeron. I know nothing of music and he knew nothing outside music.”

“It cannot be Celeborn,” she said tentatively, “Can it be?”

“No,” Thalion reassured, “It wasn’t. I had far more sense than you. Who would fall in love with Celeborn whose affections are as fickle as the waxing and waning of the moon?”

“The only Sinda royal, whose affections weren’t fickle, was Oropher,” Galadriel testily pointed out, she was stunned by the sadness that spread across Thalion’s features, “It was him.”

“Yes,” Thalion said in a low voice, “As I said, it was a long while ago. There is no need for me or you to think upon it now.”

He went inside the castle, leaving her alone to reflect on the conversation. Everything made sense to her now, Thalion’s unwavering loyalty to Oropher; his parental role in raising Thranduil and his deep grief at Oropher’s death.

She sighed, this was one secret she would never reveal till the end. 

“Círdan!” she muttered, “You are lucky to have fallen in love with the sea!”

* * *

“I swear I did not lock you in the stables!” Erestor’s voice was sharp.

“And I swear it was on your esteemed orders that I was locked up with your ward!” Glorfindel said furiously.

“How exactly would you reach that conclusion?” Erestor retorted, crossing his arms over his chest, as he leant back against the railing of the balcony.

“Simple really,” Glorfindel said sardonically, “Nobody else would have the daring to lock me in a stable. You are the only one who doesn’t understand what the name Balrog-Slayer means.”

“I suppose that you don’t understand the meaning of chief-counsellor. I have better brains than to lock you in the stables,” Erestor said calmly.

“Subtlety is something you take up only when you fear revenge. In this case, you have blatantly provoked me. Let me see if I can snatch your robes when you moon about in the river tonight,” Glorfindel suggested.

Erestor’s eyes narrowed as he said, “You wouldn’t do that.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Glorfindel seemed extremely curious, though his sky-blue eyes were sparkling.

“Because,” Erestor halted thoughtfully, “You would want to forget the episode on the banks of the Nimrodel river…I recall something about a Balrog-Slayer, a maid, a filthy nomad, entwined limbs, panting, grunting, --”

“All right, all right,” Glorfindel conceded with a defeated look, “But I might lock you in the stables.”

“I couldn’t care less,” Erestor snorted as he leant back more languidly.

“Why did you lock the poor elfling in with me?”Glorfindel sounded genuinely curious now.

Erestor shifted his stance so that his face no longer was turned towards Glorfindel. He shrugged saying, “It was my idea of a prank.”

“Indeed,” Glorfindel rolled his eyes, “I will make sure to lock you in with him one night. He was scared out of his senses, the poor child!”

 

Elrond shook his head and turned back to Thranduil, who was watching the bickering with fond amusement. They were seated on a long couch, side-by-side.

“I had missed it more than I can tell,” Thranduil explained shrugging.

Elrond laughed as he placed his hand over Thranduil’s thigh, it was good to see his friend after so many years. He wished that he had Erestor’s recklessness to visit Thranduil whenever he wanted to.

“Elrond,” Thranduil’s voice was brisker, “Amroth is weak. We must do something about the situation in Lothlórien. I, for one, cannot hold both the plains and the river valley alone. Lórien archers should at least take up a portion of the plains. Amroth concentrates his forces along the Nimrodel river, he is afraid that dwarves might carry off his beloved songmaid.”

“Anoriel has done an admirable work of ruling,” Elrond observed, “But in the long run, we must have a permanent ruler.”

“Yes,” Thranduil sighed, “Not to mention that I am worn out each day after lending her my strength, ruling Greenwood, leading patrols, trading and the rest. I am grateful to Galadriel. She has been a wonderful ally.”

“Thranduil,” Erestor sat down crosslegged at the king’s feet and leant back against Thranduil’s legs, “I think the orcs are planning something definite. Gildor assumes that they have leadership.”

“I fear that you are right,” Thranduil murmured, “But except for Gildor, none of us are in a position to chase down orcs to the ends of the world.”

Glorfindel sat down beside Elrond and said seriously, “Celeborn should take charge in Lothlórien. Amroth is destroying whatever we fought for!”

“Yes,” Elrond said quietly, “And Anoriel can then return with you, Ernil-nîn.”

“Is it politics, My Lords?” Anoriel asked mischievously as she came with Celebrían, each holding an elfling. 

“Indeed,” Thranduil rose to his feet compelling Erestor to abandon his cosy position and rise as well, “I think the two of you must be tired of elflings by now. Give them to Erestor and me…We shall have a lullaby competition.”

“Get ready to lose,” Erestor huffed as he took Elrohir from Anoriel and began walking to the other side of the balcony. Celebrían sat down beside Glorfindel wearily after handing Elladan to Thranduil. 

 

Celebrían said quietly, “Anoriel is burdened by her duties. I would return to Lothlórien to aid my father and her in any way I can.”

Elrond leant across Glorfindel and complained, “I cannot possibly be parted from the children so soon!”

“Duty is a harsh mistress, my husband,” she sighed, even as he shook his head at the endearment.

“’Bría,” Glorfindel’s voice was tentative, “If it is anything about the circumstances about your last departure to Lothlórien, I wish to assure you that none of us have grudges on the matter.”

She closed her eyes and leant back into the couch despondently. Elrond cleared his throat before saying hesitantly, “I would be proud if we could raise them together. I certainly have no wish to be parted from such wonderful children.”

“And,” Elrond continued as his gaze landed on Erestor cradle a twin with open adoration, “He loves them dearly. It would be a bigger cruelty if you did this to him.”

“I return to my father’s side, at least until matters in Lothlórien are more settled,” Celebrían said resolutely, “The elflings, well, if you are so keen to not be parted from them, then I would let them remain here. But I have no idea how you will manage their care.”

Elrond rose to his feet and hastily crouched on the floor before her, resting his hand on Glorfindel’s knees, “I would be happy if you did that! Of course, Glor here raised Erestor and his sister all alone. And I was myself raised by Maglor. We have sufficient experience. Erestor would be happy too, let us ask him!”

Celebrían’s eyes widened at this, she had merely expected Elrond to abandon his argument after being made aware of the mundane tasks involved in caring for elflings. She sighed, this seemed to be another facet of his noble character. She had no wish to be parted from her children. But she had to give in to their wishes especially when they were so forgiving. Hoping that Erestor would balk at the prospect of raising twin elflings, she nodded assent.

“’Restor!” Elrond called out and earned a disapproving glance from Thranduil, who was rocking a twin to sleep.

Even from here, Celebrían could see the raised eyebrow. She smiled reluctantly, some things had never changed. Erestor, in her opinion, was still the most attractive elf on the balcony, though Thranduil came a close second. Maybe the difference was because Erestor was less aware of his charms than the king was.

“Yes, Elrond?” Erestor transferred a sleeping elfling to the waiting cradle, “What is it?”

“’Bría wants to be with her father till things in Lothlórien settle. As I don’t wish to be parted from the elflings, I thought we might request her to let them stay with us,” Elrond said hopefully, “We can, I assume, take care of them.”

Erestor’s response was immediate as he said enthusiastically, “Of course,” he spared the sleeping elfling an adoring glance before saying, “I don’t wish to be parted from them. But of course, it is a matter between husband and wife, I have no right to interfere.”

“It depends on you, of course,” Celebrían said quietly, Erestor’s startled eyes met Elrond’s before looking at her.

“I would be honoured to help Elrond raise his heirs, My Lady,” his voice was tight and formal, “There is no need to ask.”

Glorfindel contributed lightly, “As long as Elrond and you agree to feed them and bathe them and the rest, I will help.”

“In what manner?” Elrond queried sarcastically.

“To show them off to one and all!” Glorfindel laughed before getting to his feet and walking towards Thranduil and Anoriel.

“I would like a moment alone with Lord Erestor, Elrond,” Celebrían said evenly. Elrond frowned but got to his feet and brushed past Erestor as he went to join the others.

Erestor suppressed a groan and sat down beside her. 

“You must think me the worst reptile in the world,” Celebrían said softly, “I wonder how you manage to keep such admirable restraint.”

“Being a diplomat has its merits,” Erestor said calmly, “And no, I don’t think that you are the worst reptile in the world. Isildur deserves the title.”

They remained in silence for a few moments before he asked in a low voice, “Why?”

She turned to meet his steady gaze, unclouded by any emotion. She flushed slightly remembering how those eyes had looked in desire and passion. He seemed to read her mind because his lips pursed into a thin, disapproving line.

“I was lonely, depressed and in need of much comfort,” she said truthfully, “And you have always been attractive in my eyes. When I saw you like that…I beg you, please know that I had no such intentions. You had not come to supper. I thought to bring you some so that you might not go hungry. The door was as ever unlocked. I was worried when I saw the bottles and the mess. You looked feverish, I thought you were ill. From there on,” she faltered averting his eyes, “Lower emotions ruled me, I confess. I never knew of the consequences until I was safely back in my father’s land. I was surprised very much, but I don’t regret it. I mean, I don’t regret the children, even if I regret and deeply grieve for the pain I caused you.”

“It was not something planned,” she continued bravely, “And I was shocked when I saw you regain awareness…I ran out, assembled an escort and fled home. It was cruel, vile and unforgivably callous.”

His hand shook slightly as he placed it on her clasped ones and he said quietly, “I would have died of guilt and grief if you had not survived the labour. Elrond was afraid for my sanity during those weeks.”

“I have much to answer for,” she said as she fought back tears, “Glorfindel and you have always helped me and this is how I have thanked your efforts. Sometimes I think there is more of my mother in me than I like.”

“No,” he withdrew his hand and said wryly, “Your father’s recent activities suggest that impulsiveness is a trait you have inherited from him.”

“You understand that I am returning to Lothlórien so that matters might be easier for both of us,” she enquired tentatively. 

“Yes,” he sighed, “I am an advisor of some experience after all. I will try my best to raise them as they deserve to be raised. So shall Elrond, you know that.”

“My children will have two fathers,” she closed her eyes, “And that, perhaps, might compensate my absence.”

“Your role can never be filled in,” Erestor said gravely, “Even if we do all that we can to fill it.”

“No,” Celebrían smiled bitterly, “But seeing that my mother has not been an example parent, I think I would be better off not trying. I don’t have your courage or Elrond’s nobility. Please do the best by my children and I shall be ever indebted.”

Erestor nodded and rose to his feet. Hesitating for a moment he reached out his hand. Celebrían smiled and placed her hand on his palm lightly. She was surprised and felt less burdened of guilt when he stooped to press a chaste kiss on her hand before letting it go.

She watched him walk towards the others, his dark robes flowing elegantly after him. This forgiveness was more than she could ever have hoped for. She knew it was certainly more than she deserved.

“Elbereth,” she whispered in gratitude.

 

Celeborn strode into the balcony, a dark expression on his features as he walked towards Thranduil. Celebrían frowned, she had never seen her father so worried all these years. She hastened to his side.

“What is it?” Erestor asked worriedly.

Celeborn glanced at Anoriel uneasily before clearing his throat. Celebrían felt a twinge of unease rise in her. She noticed Elrond lean towards Erestor ever so slightly. Did he have a foresight? 

“Amroth,” Anoriel said fearfully her eyes widening in realization, “What has happened, My Lord?”

“Nimrodel has vanished with her maidens, apparently in search of a conflict-free place,” sarcasm, worry and grief seemed to war on Celeborn’s face, “Amroth has followed her. I received a message from your mother, young lord.”

Thranduil’s arms enclosed Anoriel even as she collapsed with a silent cry. Celebrían rushed to her, but he shook his head and simply held his wife closer.

Glorfindel said calmly, Celebrían wondered how he could be so calm, “We shall find them, of course.”

* * *

Galadriel rode swiftly, her mare gliding on the sands as foam on water. Her hooded cloak kept the rain from her eyes. She bit her lips in an effort to concentrate herself and to shut out the strong call of the sea. For centuries, she had sought a sign. Finally, she had got a clue, and she would not waste it. She was not as good a tracker as her husband, but her mind was more powerful. It could sense life anywhere unlike Celeborn who had to depend on the nature. And now, she could sense life. 

She dismounted and patting her mare, began walking resolutely. The rain chilled her to the bones. She closed her eyes and cast her mind. A small smile curled her lips as she found what she had sought. She wrapped her arms around her soaked body and began to sing the only song that would avail her now. Tears mingled with raindrops as she recalled each event that she sung of. 

It would not do to give in to exhaustion now. She had left Greenwood immediately when she had received the message. The eagles had carried her to the coast. And there she had found a mare running loose. After centuries of her life with Celeborn, she had learnt the art of coaxing animals to her will. 

She stopped her singing when she reached a part that she had never sung before. It was too painful. Steeling herself, she renewed her song. Her voice had become hoarse with emotion and weariness. Her tongue felt like dry leather. But she continued singing. The strong winds made her lose her balance and she toppled to the sands. She did not even have the energy to rub the sand from her eyes or to sit up. Her proud voice had become almost a croak. Yet she sang. 

She was barely conscious when she felt strong arms around her, helping her back to her feet. She inhaled deeply and a weak smile lit her face as she leant against her rescuer completely. Her eyes closed of their own accord. 

When she woke again, she was lying on a wooden pallet. A soft cloak was spread over shivering body. She could hear the tell-tale sounds of a kettle. 

Drawing upon the last reserves of her much tried strength, she whispered, “I found you.”

“You seem to grow more foolish with each passing day, Artanis,” the golden voice that she had loved so was slightly hoarse from disuse, “Whatever made you think that standing on a seashore in a storm and singing the Nolodántë is a good idea?”

“I knew it would bring me to you,” Galadriel said simply, “I have been searching for centuries.”

“And how did you know I was here?” the voice was now curious. She smiled, he had always been the reasoner. 

“You wouldn’t want to know, cousin. All the shameless tactics I put use to would have embarrassed even my father,” she said quietly.

“You look thoroughly miserable,” he said gently, “What is it?”

So like him to think of her when he had been living this forsaken existence for an age and more. 

“Olórin has come from Aman,” she said solemnly, “And there is one last chance at redemption. If Sauron is defeated, then our kin can escape.”

He laughed, not the melodious laughter that had lightened many a heart, but the bitter sound of despair. She tried to get into a sitting position clumsily. He helped her and placed a hot bowl of soup on her lap. 

Galadriel looked at his hands, one was as perfect as it always had been. The other was scarred. She took it in her cold hands and pressed it to her lips. He sighed and came to sit by her on the narrow pallet.

“I don’t believe them anymore, Artanis,” he confessed freely, running fingers that still knew their path down her gaunt face.

“Nor do I,” she admitted, “But cousin, what else can we do other than try?”

“You know, I stayed back for you,” he said quietly, “I could not let you fall alone. All the rest have fallen. And when Círdan told me of Ereinion’s death, I resolved to stay until I was sure you had no need of me. The bonds that are unspoken are no less strong for their silence. I cannot leave you to loneliness.”

“It means the most to me that I am not forsaken,” she rested her head on his shoulder, “Macalaurë,” he flinched at the sound of his name in their mothertongue, “I am alone. Barely an year ago, I was on the brink of insanity. When I recovered, I resolved to find you. I had to.”

“What will you do?” his voice was sombre.

“Whatever I can do to kill Sauron. Macalaurë, I am no longer a reasoning creature. I have one end in mind, to save my kin. For that I am ready to do anything,” she said quietly.

“You sound like my father,” he sighed, “Artanis, could we not let go now? And join our kin wherever they are? Toiling against the will of the Valar shall not help us.”

“No,” she said harshly, “Not while I have an inch of strength left in this body. I will win or I will die trying, Macalaurë. That is what my brothers did. That is what your brothers did. That is what our cousins did. I will not give up.”

“Círdan has asked me to sail,” he said gravely, “My daughter has sailed. My wife has sailed. Only my sons remain here. And the tale of their love, you know of it.”

“Yes,” Galadriel sighed, “It is the same story of Finwë, Míriel and Indis. Why, cousin, these things happen in circles! I do not know what punishment the Valar will deal them for their love. I tried to save them, Macalaurë, but I could not. But seeing as the Valar have probably cursed us in all ways, I think your sons have nothing more to fear. We are all doomed to the void. And what can one more sin change?”

“You are right, Artanis,” he said determinedly, “I will not let us all be parted in death as we have been in life. I will sail and I will choose Míriel’s fate in the gardens of Irmo.”

“What will that serve?,” Galadriel asked wearily, “I have thought of just letting go many a time. But I did not think it would serve any purpose other than to make my daughter happy.”

“A life for a life,” he said quietly, “That is the law of Mandos. Erestor’s life is still linked to Elrond through the bond. My payment to Mandos would probably do some good to them. I no longer care for myself.”

“And I no longer care for myself. Stay with me,” she begged, “You know I have never asked anything of you ever before. Please, I shall go mad if you too leave me.”

“Artanis,” his voice was sharp for the first time, “I am sad there is nothing I can do to help you. But I don’t have your will. I lost my will to live when my brother jumped into the chasm before my very eyes. No, I don’t want to live again. I wish to leave this body. And to rejoin our family, stay with them forever. Our children are grown, our choices should no longer affect them.”

“Please,” she implored, “I beg you, I know I ask too much. I followed your father because I loved all of you.”

“And I followed my father because I had to,” he said wearily, “Artanis, I will not ask you to come with me. I know you will not. You have always been the strongest of us in spirit. Stay then and fight. If you win, it is Mandos for us. If you lose, it is the void. Honestly, I see not much difference as long as we are all together.”

“We have made our choices then,” she said quietly, “Pray for me, Macalaurë. I will not let us slip into the void. Mandos, it shall be, for all of us.”

“Whom should I pray to, Artanis? I have long lost faith,” he shook his head bitterly, “If they were pure of heart, they would have saved my brother. That was the last insult, and I hate them almost as much as I hate Moringotto.”

“So do I,” Galadriel sighed, “The line of Finwë shall not fail if I draw breath, Macalaurë. Say that to all of our family when you see them. I will not let us slip into the everlasting darkness. The curse of Mandos will not hold us thrall.”

He smiled tenderly at the woman he had grown up with. How they had all changed. Once upon a time, Galadriel would have abhorred her Noldor kin and favoured her Sindar husband. Now the passage of time was bringing her closer to their fates. There was no escape. But they would be together. He knew that her fate would be probably the worst. She had done what his father had done before. She had defied the Valar themselves. 

He looked at the wan, weary features of his cousin. She had once been proud and beautiful. Her pitiable figure before him right now was a far cry from the princess who had stood alongside her kin in the halls of their grandfather.

“This one night,” she whispered, “I want to stay with you. Please don’t refuse me that too. Give me what you can. I wish not to be alone.”

“I will not deny you anything,” he sighed, “What is mine has ever been yours. You will not find much rest in this cave, but stay.”

“Is it true that your wife begged the Valar to dissolve your vows?” she asked curious as she lay down on the pallet and wrapped her arms around him possessively.

“Yes,” he smiled sadly embracing her tightly, “It was right. Ours had not been a marriage of hearts, as you well know.”

“I am sorry,” she said sincerely. "Often have I envied her place in your heart. I knew I could never hold your love. But what paltry part I had, it was treasured, most deeply. Much have we lost. I am sorry."

“Somehow, Artanis,” he said quietly, “Those simple, three words will not cover everything we have lost.”

“I know,” she said simply. "I still--"

“Don't tell me," his voice was pained by memories. "Come with me,” he breathed, “Let us sail together and die together. Let us stand on the Mahanaxar and be judged together. Our lives are twined, though we tried all that we could to make them disparate.”

“No, Macalaurë, I have made my choice,” Galadriel said firmly, “If I die before Sauron is destroyed, it shall be in Middle-Earth, in these harsh, unforgiving lands that we came to conquer and rule millennia ago.”

 

Galadriel waved sombrely to the hooded figure on the deck of the ship. It was over.

“You saved him,” Círdan’s voice was comforting, “He would never have found the courage to sail if you had not gone to him. Your words succeeded where mine could not. And I have been trying for centuries since I first traced him.”

“It is not that, My Lord,” she said with a bitter smile, “He stayed back for me. He did not want me to perish alone at the end.”

“But,” Círdan sighed, “It was your choice.”

“Yes,” she said firmly, “It is my choice. I know I am repeating my uncle’s sin. I have challenged the Valar themselves. And I don’t regret it in the least. My Lord, do you think that my house is insane?”

“I have always loved your house despite its curses and failings,” Círdan smiled sadly, “Your house is not insane. It is just that flames of your line burn brighter. Even the best of us may fall prey to jealousy.”

“You are talking in circles,” she sighed, “And I am not in a mood to decipher them. But, My Lord, do you understand my choice?”

“I don’t. But, Galadriel, I had never expected you to act differently,” he said wisely, “From the first time I laid my eyes on you, I had known with certainty that this would be your choice.” 

“You have ever been our succour,” she smiled gratefully, “We would all have perished long ago if it had not been for you.”

“I will not go against the Valar, Galadriel. But that does not ever mean that I am their most ardent devotee. The Lord of the sea, Ulmo, is my protector. It is only to him that my prayers are addressed,” he paused, “Your cause is just. And I will do what I can to aid it in my own way.”

“Fair shall the end be,” she said repeating her uncle’s words before their exile from Aman, “though long and hard shall be the road!”

“I hope that you are right, My Lady,” Círdan said sorrowfully, “More than that, I pray that you believe in your own words.”

“I have to, Círdan, lest I go mad,” Galadriel said quietly.

Círdan watched her walk away, her head still proudly held up. He shook his head in grief. Each of her measured footsteps seemed to take her closer to the ultimate doom awaiting her. He knew that she did not fear it. And that was what saddened him. What use was there in punishment when one did not fear it?

* * *

Amroth rode frantically through the hills of Edhellond. He had yet to see a sign of her. To his horror, the trail led to the sea, the ports of Belfalas. Why would she go there? She was a Sylvan maiden, more attached to the lands of Middle-Earth than the shores of the sea.

“My Lord,” a human hailed him in the common tongue. 

Amroth halted his horse unwillingly and looked questioningly. He had the working grasp of the common tongue from his days in the last alliance. He had never thought that it would serve him well one day.

“Are you searching for the elven maidens?” the human asked hesitantly. 

“Yes,” Amroth dismounted, “Have you seen them pass? I have been on their trail for days.” 

“Come with me, My Lord,” the human said uncertainly, “I can lead you to someone who knows this tale.”

Amroth released his horse and followed the man impatiently. He had nothing to lose anyway. He was lead through a small path in the bushes until they finally reached a coastal village. Men and women came out of their houses gawking at the strange elf in their midst.

“Lord Amroth!,” it was an elven voice in Sylvan, Amroth turned quickly. He saw one of Nimrodel’s maidens. She was clad in coarse fabric that the humans favoured. She came to his side and bowed deeply.

“Where are the others?” Amroth asked worriedly, “Where is Nimrodel?”

“I don’t know, My Lord,” she whispered sorrowfully.

“Tell me all,” he commanded furiously, “Why did you do this? Do you have the least idea of what I had to do? I left behind realm and crown to follow you. What was the purpose of this chase?”

“My Lord, My Lord,” she beseeched, “She said you would find us before we left the borders of our land. We did not know the paths. We were lost. And orcs killed many,” Amroth flinched, “Nimrodel and two of us escaped. We fled south. There were men. We had never seen them before. We did not know their language. But mostly they were kind. They directed us to Edhellond. They said elves were to be found here. We travelled with a trade caravan. One night, she left us. I don’t know why, My Lord. We searched everywhere. Then my friend went with the caravan to the human coasts. I stayed here. I hoped I might find you if ever you passed this way.”

“Of all that you have done, Nimrodel,” he cursed angrily, “This, by far, is the greatest wrong, I say. Did I not promise you that I would come with you?”

“My Lord,” the maid faltered, “She was talking of the lands of lore. That is why I was afraid.”

“Aman?” Amroth said shocked, “She did not even have the call of the sea! How could she even think of such folly?”

“I am not sure, My Lord,” the frightened maid said, “Let us return to our land. Lord Círdan will know if she went to the harbours.”

“No,” Amroth said decisively, “I will enquire in the ports of Belfalas first. What if she has reached there?”

 

Erestor rode slowly through the lush countryside. He had never seen Eriador so peaceful and green. Not for the first time, he was glad that his escort had opted to stay behind in the Havens. Travelling on his own was an experience he enjoyed. Right now he wanted to be alone to think of all that his sister had said and done. Usually he would take the swifter path through Lindon. But this time, he was determined to explore Eriador in earnest.

A flurry of movement in the bushes was picked up by his keen senses followed by the appearance of the smallest, overgrown children he had ever seen. He dismounted and stilled his startled horse. Halflings, Mithrandir had called them. Their speech seemed to be the common tongue. A dozen wide eyed halflings were looking up at him curiousity brimming in their large eyes. He hastily pulled back his hood and bowed politely. 

“It is an elf,” a woman cried out, “Look at them pointy ears!”

Erestor turned crimson as all the halflings began to stare at his ears. He bowed once again and said, “I am an elf, Erestor Maglorion at your service.”

An old halfling came to inspect him closely and muttered, “Would you be a friend of Gandalf? Because, we don’t trust you big folk.”

“Gandalf?” Erestor asked genuinely bewildered. 

The halflings caught his tunic and began tugging him insistently towards their dwellings. Caves, Erestor thought, a moment later he changed his opinion to overlarge rabbit holes. Was this how they lived? 

“Will your horse be all right, Mr.Elf?” a younger woman asked him politely.

“Yes, of course,” Erestor knelt on one knee and pressed a kiss to her plump hand. 

Diplomacy, he decided, only diplomacy was required. The maiden blushed and withdrew her hand. A child took advantage of Erestor’s kneeling position and grabbed his ears, tugging experimentally. Erestor suppressed a wince and tried to pry the child’s hands off. Halflings, he found to his dismay, were not as fragile and weak as they seemed to be.

“Gandalf! Gandalf! Look what we have found here!” half a dozen voices called out animatedly.

Erestor heard a familiar dry chuckle followed by, “Yes, my dear hobbits, you have found one stray elf.”

“Mithrandir,” Erestor sighed in relief as he finally rescued his ears from the curious child, he got to his feet and faced the twinkling blue-grey eyes of the wizard, “Am I glad to see you!”

 

“He seems to have crossed into Edhellond,” Gildor murmured, “I think he is making for the Belfalas.”

“Why?” Glorfindel frowned in bewilderment, “The maid would not have neared the sea, would she? I thought that the Sylvans were unaware of the call of the west.”

“I cannot try to explain the workings of a Sylvan maiden’s mind,” Gildor sighed, “Amroth could have chosen anyone, and he had to fall in love with this fey woman on the borders!”

“Hmmm…,” Celeborn’s voice was sceptical as he got to his feet from the crouch he had been in to scrutinise the tracks, “The trail leads to the sea. But I can see no trace of Nimrodel, it is another maiden, My Lords. Amroth is following another woman.”

“What?” Glorfindel groaned, “I have it in my mind to throw them both to the orcs. They have cost us so much time and effort!”

“True,” Gildor muttered, “Let us find him now, and deal with him later. Thranduil, for one, will be very angry. He has lost his wife to Lothlórien again.”

“I am not letting Anoriel return unless Amroth comes to Lothlórien,” Celeborn said firmly, “There is no one to manage the realm!”

 

Elrond smiled as the elder of the twins slowly, but steadily crawled on the table from Lindir to him. Elrohir was still on his lap, sucking Elrond’s fingers as if they were a delicacy.

“Ah!” Lindir clapped and laughed, “Elladan has done it! A long, arduous journey from north to south in record time!”

The elfling laughed lighting up the atmosphere in the room. Elrond shook his head, he was truly becoming soft. Just now he had realized, he would never give up these children for all the treasure in the world. It did not matter to him that Celebrían would be away for their upbringing. He looked forward to it.

“I think young Elrohir will be a healer one day as renowned as you,” Lindir said observantly, “He likes the smell of the herbs already. That is why he refuses to stay away from your hands.”

Elrond grinned as he attempted to pry away his fingers from a persistent elfling. Elrohir’s solemn, deep eyes met his own. He resigned himself to losing his fingers and sat back in his chair. 

“I would like nothing better,” Elrond remarked, “He will be a better healer than Thalion, won’t he?”

“I pray so,” Lindir smiled, “To surpass Lord Thalion is not an easy goal! And young Elladan here, he will be a mighty warrior as his father!”

Elrond coughed in an attempt to hide his gasp, Elrohir looked up at him curious and thumped a tiny fist into Elrond’s chest, as if sure that was the best remedy. Yes, Elrond noted abstractedly, this one would be a healer. When he looked up into Lindir’s wise gaze, he felt panic rise in him.

“Elladan is surely strong for his age,” Elrond remarked cautiously, “Maybe he will one day duel with Celeborn and win. The Silver Tree is undefeated. I hope that some of his traits are present in the twins.”

“Yes,” Lindir smiled, “I am sure that they will take after Celeborn in many ways.”

 

“My Lord,” the panic-stricken maid said in highly strung voice, “I told her not to do anything rash. Yet she said she wished to see the lands of the easterners. I could do nothing to stop her. My companion stayed in a human village east to inform Lord Amroth when he passed. And then one day, the fishermen saw the lord near the docks, wringing his hands in despair and shouting her name. I tried to go to him. But he doesn’t allow anyone near. The rulers of this land keep an eye on him.”

Celeborn translated the Sylvan words into Sindarin for Glorfindel and Gildor. After the maid had retired, Celeborn pressed a hand to his temples and massaged them wearily. 

“We cannot go into the southern kingdoms of Harad seeking an elven maiden, Celeborn,” Gildor’s voice was calm, “We need to find Amroth and drag him back to Lothlórien.”

“Yes,” Glorfindel agreed, “Nimrodel’s fate is no longer our concern, she has nearly brought down a realm!”

“But she is an ignorant elven maid who will not survive the wild men of Harad,” Celeborn protested, “We cannot let her perish!”

“Celeborn,” Glorfindel said sternly, “We cannot do anything.”

“I understand,” Celeborn sighed, “Come, then, we must find Amroth.”

They rushed on to the human city by Belfalas. Celeborn was enchanted by the white sailed ships that were docked in the busy harbour. He had never strayed so far from the usual elven tranquillity in his life. Even the last alliance had been less taxing on him because he had been surrounded by elves. But this was different. He realized that this would be how Middle-Earth lived after the elves left. The impatience of the Second Born would gnaw away all serene memories of elves.

“Celeborn,” Glorfindel nudged Celeborn’s mare, “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” Celeborn said quietly, “Let us make for the docks. They might know of something to help us find him.”

Gildor was already in the midst of the bustle. His wanderings had taken him through many a land that other elves would not have treaded upon. So he was quite familiar with the accents and the manners of all men. Celeborn dismounted and stood beside Glorfindel feeling strangely out of place. Even while he had been the sole Sinda in Lindon’s council, he had not felt so awkward. He glanced across at Glorfindel, the Balrog Slayer seemed as calm as ever. 

Sighing, Celeborn let his gaze drift to the sea. A small white sail fluttered bravely against the harsh sea winds. Celeborn took a deep breath, he could smell rain in the air. He wondered how proficient the steersman had to be to attempt the small wooden vessel in such weather. As he tried to discern more, his eyes took in the long yellow clothlike substance swinging with the wind. 

Celeborn frowned. Hair, he was sure. Which human would grow his hair so long? From what he had heard of their customs, it was the women who grew their hair long. And flaxen yellow, such a strange colour to be seen amongst the usually dark haired people of Gondor.

Unless, his eyes widened with sudden realization, unless it was not a human.

“Celeborn?” Glorfindel tapped his arm worriedly. 

The silver-haired elf had been acting most strangely for the past few moments. Glorfindel was about to suggest that Celeborn take a sip of miruvor from his flask when the other elf opened his mouth in an inarticulate cry and bounded down the streets.

Gildor met Glorfindel’s eyes in surprise. Glorfindel shrugged and followed Celeborn through the maze of streets as they made for the shoreline. When Glorfindel finally caught up with Celeborn, the other elf had closed his eyes, his lips moving in silent prayer.

“Celeborn?” Gildor’s voice was panting as he caught up finally.

“No,” Glorfindel muttered, as his eyes made out the small vessel, “The fool!” he pointed a finger to direct Gildor.

Gildor obeyed and then gasped, “How can he sail without a sea call?” 

“Ulmo keep him safe,” Celeborn murmured before turning back and walking slowly. 

Glorfindel said in a disbelieving tone, “Only, you, Celeborn can be so optimistic!”

Celeborn shrugged. He had always been an optimist. Galadriel on the other hand, he thought wryly, had been a pessimist. Perhaps that is why they had been drawn to each other. Amroth, he mused darkly, what had Amroth seen in the Sylvan maiden? And how could he find in himself the will to let go of realm and kin to pursue her to the ends of the world and beyond? Would he do the same for Galadriel? Celeborn stilled. 

“Glorfindel, Gildor,” he said evenly, “Come, we have a long journey back to Lothlórien. We cannot linger here. We should take back the news to the rest.”

How would Anoriel react? Celeborn decided to tell Thranduil first. The young king could then break the news to his queen. 

“My Lords,” a coarse, stinking human sidled up to them. Gildor and Glorfindel gave him cold stares. Celeborn smiled helplessly, the fastidious Noldor could never stand unclean people.

“Yes?” Celeborn asked in the common tongue. 

“The sailor left a message to those who came after him,” the human offered a dirty parchment.

“This is my choice, and I shall follow it to the bitter end. To all of you, I may seem mad and foolish, but please know that I regret nothing. My love to my sister, long may she reign beside Thranduil. I abdicate the throne in favour of my sister, the last of our line. If she cannot take up the burden, I wish that the Lord Celeborn, last of the scions of Doriath, would take up the rule.”

“Amdir would have killed him if he had been alive,” was Gildor’s only comment. 

Glorfindel did not reply. He knew the pain of love well. He stared into Celeborn’s calm eyes. He smiled wearily, after all, who was he to complain of love? Celeborn had the most experience. If he had been in Celeborn’s shoes, he would have gone mad long ago. 

“Well,” Celeborn murmured, “Proves that he was courageous at least at the end.”

“What?” Gildor spluttered.

“Yes,” Celeborn folded the parchment and tucked it into his tunic, “He had the courage to follow his love, of course! Not many would do that.”

Glorfindel swallowed, he knew what Celeborn meant. After all, he had spurned Menelwen in fear. Later he had never found the courage to approach her and apologize. Amroth seemed to have made a braver choice. He had assumed that Nimrodel sailed, and he had followed her.

* * *

“I have never travelled on this road before,” Mithrandir said interestedly, “Now that I think of it, none of the maps show this path.”

“That is because it is not a path, at least not a charted path,” Erestor smiled, “This is a path that only a few travel by. This, Mithrandir, is a troll path.”

“I thought so,” Mithrandir laughed, “Thranduil once took me deep into his forests and led me to a wolves’ lair. After that I have been expecting something of the sort from you. What if we meet trolls?”

“Trolls don’t pose a problem by sunlight, Mithrandir,” Erestor said quietly, “But in the darkness of the nights, I would advise you to be on your guard. Glorfindel and Elrond once had a run in with trolls at night near the valley. That was before the war of the last alliance. Though both of them were unharmed, they have never travelled through the region again.”

“Have you had a run-in with trolls then?” Mithrandir asked curious, “From what I know of you, it seems unlikely that you would not have met them.”

“I have,” Erestor laughed, “More than once. But my stallions have always been fast and I could always outrun even wargs.”

“I see that,” the wizard looked down at Erestor’s magnificent black stallion, “You seem to have a fondness for chargers.”

“No more than Thranduil!” Erestor protested, “But your steed, I think it has Meara bloodlines.”

“Yes,” Mithrandir bowed, “If not for your pointy ears, I would have thought that you were a wizard, my friend.”

“Careful now,” Erestor placed a calming hand on Mithrandir’s restless horse, “I think that we are being followed by orcs. Shall we fight or shall we run?”

“How many?” Mithrandir demanded as he soothed his horse.

“More than a dozen, less than twenty,” Erestor guessed, “I am sorry, but I am not Gildor. He can determine astutely.”

“How far to Imladris?” Mithrandir asked quietly.

“Two nights if we race like the wind,” Erestor offered, “That is what I do under these circumstances usually. Elrond will roast us, but as long as we stay away from actual skirmish, he will forgive.”

“I have never tested my mettle against orcs thus far,” Mithrandir said thoughtfully, “I wish to see the extent of my powers.”

“Then so be it,” Erestor said uneasily as he examined their surround. 

Rock walls hemmed them in. The good thing, Erestor thought, was that the orcs could not surprise them from the sides. The light was fast waning. So unless they were quick with the kill, there would be trouble. Determinedly, he closed his bond to Elrond. He was sure that the half-elf would probably skewer him if he realized Erestor’s situation now. Resigning himself to at least a couple of broken bones, Erestor quietly unsheathed his sword. He could not disagree with the wizard. Mithrandir had to test his limits against the real enemy soon. At least, there were no wargs.

“They come,” Erestor told the wizard. Mithrandir nodded, steeling himself and raising his staff in his left hand. His right hand held his sword firmly. 

The orcs charged, their malevolent faces leering as they looked upon the two solitary travellers. Erestor raised his sword and charged, the familiar battlelust spreading through his blood. 

As he plunged his weapon into the first orc, he raised his eyes heavenwards and breathed, “For you, My Lady.”

Next to him Mithrandir was more than capable of defending himself. The orcs seemed to realise that the seemingly decrepit old man had a few tricks up his sleeve. They started a fiercer attack. Erestor accounted the odds as three to one. Fair enough. He had just finished running his sword through a particularly thick orc’s neck when Mithrandir gasped. Alarmed, he turned around. Three trolls blocked their path, their heavy clubs held at ready. The sun had set, Erestor realized in horror.

His battle instincts kicked in as he set about to despatch the orcs as quickly as he could. Trolls were trolls and they would take time to decide the best way to deal with their prey. Maybe, he could take advantage of their indecision.

“ARE YOU BLIND?” Mithrandir shouted as Erestor coolly wiped his sword on his tunic and turned about to face the trolls.

“Mithrandir,” Erestor said quietly, as the trolls began to move cumbrously towards them, “I have a way out of this.”

“I certainly hope so,” Mithrandir said gruffly, “Because I am not going to fight trolls!”

“Your horse is Meara, let it go. It can find its own way to escape. Join me,” Erestor said calmly not wanting to provoke the trolls, which he observed with rising horror, were far larger than anything he had ever expected. No wonder that Glorfindel refused to even step inside the trollshaws. 

“Are you insane?” Mithrandir barked.

“Funnily enough, that is not the first time that I have been asked the question,” Erestor reached out to pull the much heavier wizard onto his own horse. 

He lightly nudged the flanks and they were riding at a gallop through the gap between the first troll’s legs. Erestor knew that their luck was not going to help them in the second troll’s matter. He swung his sword with all his energy forcing the troll to stagger. Disbelievingly, he saw that his blow had barely scratched the skin. The last troll seemed to be more intelligent than the others and stood squarely in their path. Erestor cursed and swung his sword again, the troll reached down with its club. 

Erestor was shocked when a blast of light burst the club into smithereens bare inches before it struck his head. He stopped worrying and instead concentrated on getting them away from the trolls as fast as he could.

They raced like they had a wraith on their tails. After reaching the lands of the ancient Tom Bombadil, they halted their ride. 

“That was unbelievable,” Erestor gasped as he dismounted and kept a steadying arm on Mithrandir’s weak form, “The staff is not exactly a walking stick, I see.”

“But after using it, I will be forced to make it a walking stick,” Mithrandir said wryly as he slumped wearily from the horse. Erestor steadied him and helped him into a sitting position on the grass, “It is exacting. I think I should save it for the hopeless situations and improve my swordsmanship instead.”

“True,” Erestor conceded, “You should not use it while you are on your own. It drains your energy heavily. But all the same, it was an interesting experience. Now, I can add one more danger faced in my career as a warrior.”

“Is this how you talk after a close escape?” Mithrandir groaned, “I am not impressed. Tell me, why did you raise your face to the heavens after the first kill?”

“It is something I have always done. The first kill is always in Elbereth’s name,” Erestor smiled weakly, “Elrond often tells me that it is a useless dedication. But still, I trust that they are not so callous.”

“Well, for your sake I hope that Elbereth listens to you!” Mithrandir laughed, “The Lady Varda is a kind soul, whatever we say. Unlike the rest of them.”

“Have you never regretted it?” Erestor asked quietly, “Coming to Middle-Earth after defying Manwë?”

“No,” Mithrandir said seriously, “I don’t think I do. At times I am sad. Especially when I am restricted by my body, but otherwise, coming to Middle-Earth seems to be the best thing I have ever done. My race was made to serve. And where else can I do that better? Middle-Earth has lot to offer. Halflings, I am besotted with them already. And the men of Gondor and Rohan are truly noble. Elves, I have spent all my life with elves. So I consider them kin.”

“You don’t regret losing your old friends?” Erestor raised an eyebrow as he lay down on the wet grass and raised his eyes to the stars.

“Yes,” the wizard allowed as he took in the fine features of his companion, “But I have found new friends. Glorfindel, Círdan and Galadriel are old acquaintances. Thranduil and Celeborn and Elrond, I have grown to esteem their wisdom and valour.”

“And what of a certain chief-counsellor whom you should take care never to cross?” Erestor demanded.

“Yes,” Mithrandir laughed, “I think that I should raise those who save my life to the status of a sword-brother. Would you agree?”

“Hmm…,” Erestor said in a mock thoughtful voice, “I suppose that it is less alarming than the occasion where Durin of Moria offered to be a sword-brother to Thranduil. Elrond still teases him every chance he gets. I think I shall agree.” 

“What is the reason for your travels?” the wizard asked in a more solemn manner, “Has your sister recovered?”

“I sent her across the sea,” Erestor said baldly, “There was no other way. My errand was to find Amroth and Nimrodel, his lover. But Thranduil told me that the search was over. Seeing that he did not tell me any particulars, I assume that the end was terrible.”

Sensing that Erestor would not wish further discussion of his sister, Mithrandir asked in a lighter tone, “The king of Lórien is besotted with the maid, isn’t he? Love is unpredictable, I say!”

“Do the Istari love?” Erestor asked in a curious tone, “It has been something I have wanted to ask you since the first day of our acquaintance.”

“I am not sure,” Mithrandir said frankly, “None of us have married or courted other than Melian. Desires, yes, we feel them though with more self-restraint. I cannot answer for the race of the Istari. But for myself, I can say that I have never felt this emotion.”

They remained silent for a few moments before Mithrandir said gravely, “I appreciate beauty as much as elves do. I respect all things noble and wise. Seeing that I can feel all emotions from rage to fear, I think I may be capable of love too. Are you interested in pursuing something?” he cocked an eyebrow mischievously.

“Of course not!” Erestor said haughtily, “I was merely curious.”

“I think that my current appearance might detract from my charms and rightly so. But I am proud to say that your race has always valued wisdom above outer husks,” Mithrandir mused, “I am not propositioning you. Merely stating the obvious.”

“I would have propositioned you myself if I had not sworn a vow,” Erestor laughed pleasantly, “I think, anyone would be honoured if you ever approached them with an intent.”

“Hmm…,” Mithrandir ground out irritably, “I suppose there is that. But tell me, are you really keeping in faith with vows sundered so long ago?”

“I would have suspected you of manipulating this conversation if you had been Thranduil,” Erestor smiled intrigued by the wizard’s sudden curiosity in his personal affairs.

“No,” Mithrandir said quietly, “I know that it is not my right to step where I am not welcome. It is just that, in the fighting, when you were killing them, your aggression and spirit. It struck me to the very core. I have never seen anyone fight with such a fire shining in their eyes.”

“Ah!” Erestor sighed, “There you are wrong. Legends say that all of my house had fiery spirits. I can attest to it that Elrond is a terrible sight when furious. And the late high-king, seeing him on the morn,” he shivered slightly, “That day, he looked like a shining star, like one of the Valar.”

“If you are so roused by battlelust, then you would be even more excited by passion,” Mithrandir remarked.

“There is no rule that prevents me from seeking simple comfort in the arms of a willing partner, Mithrandir,” Erestor said quietly, his voice wavering slightly as he tried to measure the wizard’s words.

“That is true,” Mithrandir said nonchalantly, “But I wanted to tell you something: Lord Saruman, my senior, he is wise, cunning and learned. He has spies everywhere, even in your lands. And it was said by him that the doom of Finwë lingers over your house. I mean not to pry. I am not Saruman. If I can help, I will.”

Erestor frowned. He did not appreciate the thought of a spy in Saruman’s service who had faithfully observed the truth. Must be from the upper echelons, for Elrond and he were most discreet. Who might it be? 

“I think that you will not judge us,” Erestor said quietly, “I married Gil-Galad out of love, respect and trust. Elrond married his wife because of political wiles. When Gil-Galad died, I was on my own deathbed. Elrond pulled me back by bonding with me. They tried to make me forget that. Then Thranduil, who had sworn never to lie to me, told me the truth. I went to Elrond guilty and grieving for all that I had made him suffer silently. It was then that he told me he had loved me through my own marriage. I suppose it was later that I realized I too had loved him, though not in a passionate sense.”

“You are a widower and he is a father of two children,” Mithrandir observed, “This is more complicated than the example of Finwë. The punishment will be more severe, you know.”

“Yes, Mithrandir, I have long resigned myself to that,” Erestor closed his eyes wearily, “It would be a favour if you could keep this to yourself. Elrond will murder me.”

“You know that I am on your side if you ever need my aid,” Mithrandir said quietly, “I will do my best to save you from the doom of Finwë.”

 

Celeborn rode along the stream at an easy pace. Gildor and Glorfindel would have already given the news in Lothlórien. So Celeborn had decided to take a different path. He too had made a choice.

“My Lord Celeborn,” a border guard hailed him, “Follow me.”

Celeborn nodded at the escort and they wend their way deeper into the woods. Finally they reached the keep. Celeborn entered the halls alone. He knew the way as well as he knew his own home. As he entered the richly furnished library, he had to suppress a smile. 

Galadriel and Thranduil were staring at a chessboard intently. Celeborn cleared his throat. 

As they looked up in surprise, Celeborn said quietly, “I have come to take my wife home.”

“Hail, Lord of Lothlórien,” Thranduil muttered before making his next move on the board, “I have already sent an escort to fetch my wife home. She is taking it better than I expected. But still I wish that you had got your hands on Amroth. He made my Anoriel a nervous wreck!”

Galadriel’s eye met Celeborn’s gaze steadily before saying, “I will come with you, My Lord. What are your conditions?”

Thranduil glanced up bewildered. Celeborn said evenly, “Keep away from our daughter, nothing less, nothing more. What are yours?”

“Lock your chambers if you have more desirable company,” she smiled wistfully, “I don’t think that I can endure the attentions of the orcs again.”

Thranduil winced, Celeborn bit his lower lip in mortification. But a moment later, he nodded.

Thranduil looked up from the board and leant back, watching them both carefully, “You do know that the both of you have a home with me whatever the situation is. It is too much to hope that you will never have another quarrel. But I pray you won’t.”

“And you will always have a home with us,” Celeborn said smiling.

“Celeborn,” Thranduil laughed, “I will accept your offer. But not the lady’s. Where she is going at the end, I don’t fancy ending up there.”

Galadriel sighed, but held her silence. Celeborn said quietly, “I don’t think that our fates will be different in the end. We are bound after all. Wherever you go, I will follow.”

“Not at the end,” Galadriel smiled sadly, “But let us not think of such things now. I will come with you, and we will rule the land together. Thranduil, as ever I am indebted to you. You will always have an ally in me.”

“I hope so,” Thranduil bowed, “Now begone with you two before you start quarrelling here. I have to ready myself to receive my Queen!”

 

Erestor parted ways with Mithrandir as the wizard wished to meet Tom Bombadil. Now that he was alone, Erestor raced through the lands hoping to make it to Imladris before Glorfindel. He had to break the news to the Balrog Slayer. He did not exactly look forward to it, but maybe after a day’s rest he could face it bravely.

As he galloped into the courtyard of the last homely home in the west, Elrond came down the stairs with a most forbidding expression on his austere features. 

“Why did you shield the bond?” Elrond asked coldly, “Orcs? Wargs? Wraiths? Wild men?”

Erestor winced at Elrond’s tone and dismounted. A stable land hastily arrived and took charge of the charger before leaving the two lords alone in the courtyard.

“Elrond, I can explain,” Erestor said in his most diplomatic manner, “After a hot bath and a meal, please.”

Anger gave way to relief on Elrond’s features as he remarked, “I suppose your escort is trailing you.”

“They wished to stay at Círdan’s for a while,” Erestor said quietly.

“And you rode alone!” Elrond’s temper flared again, “How many times have I asked you to have a care for my worry? Each time you do something reckless, do you know how I grieve? How will you know? It isn’t as if you ever have been in that position! What exactly are you trying to prove by travelling in the wild lands alone?”

Erestor placed a soothing hand on Elrond’s wrist, but Elrond flicked it away angrily and strode past him into the house. Sighing, Erestor followed him wearily. 

“Don’t you dare give a perfectly reasonable explanation!” Elrond muttered as he walked into his chambers.

“I won’t,” Erestor said sincerely, “Will you sit down? I am tired and sore from riding.”

“There is a bath drawn,” Elrond glowered, “Get into it. Honestly, you stink worse than a troll.”

Erestor suppressed an urge to tell Elrond the story. He had absolutely no wish to brave Elrond’s temper for the second time in a day. 

He began to strip saying, “My sister has sailed,” Elrond sat up bewildered, “Yes, Elrond, she sailed because her love for Glor outweighed every other hold on her. She was nearly insane. I had to send her to Valinor.”

“Will she reach there?” Elrond whispered in horror.

“I hope so. She had given up our father’s ancestry and relinquished all claim on the house of Finwë. She took up her husband’s heritage. So technically speaking, the doom of Finwë will not have a hold on her. Our mother, she was able to sail safely too, once the Valar had dissolved her bond to my father,” Erestor stripped his leggings trying not to smile at Elrond’s steely resolve not to stare at his naked form.

“Glorfindel will be upset,” Elrond remarked.

“That is an understatement. I do not look forward to be the one telling him this,” Erestor mumbled as he slid into the warm water and closed his eyes, “I was not alone. Mithrandir joined me in Eriador. His favourite Halfling-land. And we travelled together till Tom Bombadil’s realm. What news of Amroth?”

Elrond’s expression cleared slightly when he heard that Erestor had not been alone. He said sadly, “Amroth sailed. Celeborn and Galadriel will rule the lands as per Anoriel’s wishes. She has returned to Thranduil.”

“How are the twins doing?” Erestor opened his eyes and asked eagerly, “I have been thinking about them a lot on the trail.”

“As you should,” Elrond rolled his eyes, “I had a tough time managing them. Elladan is walking unsteadily. Elrohir, I am afraid, has made our study his domain. He thinks he understands all the scrolls. I have not got much work done.”

“You can get to that tomorrow. I will manage the twins,” Erestor offered. Elrond scowled his displeasure.

“I think we can take turns,” Erestor laughed, “It seems you consider them as worthy as the scrolls!”

“Get out of the water,” Elrond grumbled, “I will have food sent to your rooms. Half-an-hour and I want compensation for the days you have been away.”

“I was wondering when you would speak of that,” Erestor smiled as he got out of the pool and began drying himself, “For a moment I had been worried that even my naked body cannot entice you!”

“Indeed,” Elrond laughed, “I could not see a patch of skin underneath all the grime, what was there to be enticed by?”

 

Thranduil embraced his queen and led her into his fortress. Her fair face was wan and gaunt. Her grief hung about her like a cloak. He was searching for words to console her when she spoke,

“Ernil-nîn, It was his choice. I cannot curse him,” she smiled weakly, “I am glad to be with you again.”

“And never may we be parted again,” he whispered as she brought her lips to his in a passionate kiss.

 

Glorfindel said brokenly, “She did not even wait for me to come to her. She could have done at least that,” he fingered the unfinished banner grief-stricken.

“Glor,” Erestor knelt before his slumped form, “She would have waited for you if she could. I was there, Glor, she was nearly gone. There was nothing else to be done.” 

“Was she,” Glorfindel closed his eyes, “Did she forgive me?”

“You know her,” Erestor smiled wanly, “She was bitter, but forgiving. Listen, Glor, I am sorry for not mending matters between you when you had arrived after Eregion. I wish I could have been there instead of Gil.”

“No,” Glorfindel buried his head in the banner, “There was nothing that could have been done. I hoped that she would be happy with her husband. I condemned him, her, Aldor and myself to an existence filled with regrets.”

“Who amongst us do not have regrets?” Erestor asked quietly.

He folded his hands around Glorfindel’s neck drawing the Balrog-Slayer to his chest. He ran his fingers soothingly through the golden locks of his friend’s hair even as Glorfindel cried bitterly. The scalding tears that fell on Erestor’s skin were not mere tears of grief, but those of brutal despair.

* * *

“ADA!” Elrohir scowled in a perfect impersonation of Elrond that Erestor had to suppress a smile with his hand. 

“Yes, young lord,” Elrond asked patiently, “What is it now?”

“’Dan says we can go to the gardens. I told him not to!” Elrohir puffed his chest righteously, “But he went.”

“Elrond,” Erestor said soothingly as Elrond got to his feet in exasperation, “Let him finish.”

Elrond scowled and crossed his arms over his chest. Elrohir said cheekily, “Ada is like ‘Dan, isn’t he, Ada? He is very impatient.”

Erestor decided that Elrohir was addressing him. Glorfindel had taught the twins to speak. He was an excellent teacher, albeit a mischievous one. He had firmly asked the elflings to call both Elrond and Erestor as ‘Ada’ leading to utter confusion most of the time. And how the inhabitants of Imladris looked upon this, Erestor tried not to think of that. Thranduil had said that it was something best kept away from Celeborn’s ears and Erestor whole-heartedly agreed. 

But then Celeborn was too occupied with the affairs of his land to come and visit his grandchildren. Galadriel had come alone last summer. She simply spent the day with the elflings before leaving quickly, as if she did not want to taint the land with her presence. Glorfindel had offered to escort her to the high pass, but she firmly refused saying that there was nothing more which even the most imaginative orc could do to her.

Thranduil no longer met Erestor for midnight meetings in the mountains. The orc incursions in his lands were increasing in frequency and viciousness. In one of his recent letters Thranduil had confessed that he was losing certain strategic locations in the south to marauding orcs. There was a lull in fighting everywhere else. Celeborn was calling the days, ‘The Era of the Watchful Peace’. Thranduil did not agree as he battled wild men and orcs almost on a daily basis. And Erestor too was worried for Greenwood.

Erestor’s worries were dispelled by an irritated Elrohir’s stamping feet.

“Yes, Elrohir,” Erestor leant back in his chair, “Elrond is very impatient,” he carefully ignored Elrond’s wilting glare, “But tell us what happened.”

“’Dan met Glorfin’l. And they went riding together,” Elrohir said pouting, “Can I ride too?” he looked up hopefully, “Pleeeease.”

“Well,” Elrond said wearily, “I think it is time we got you ponies. I will ask the stablehands. In the meantime, I am sure that Glorfindel will have no problem giving you a ride on his horse.”

Elrohir scowled again, “I want to ride you, Ada! You are harder than that horse. I won’t lose my grip.”

Elrond turned red with mortification and said furiously, “Don’t you ever tell anyone that, young elf!” Erestor pretended to be interested in the parchment he was writing upon.

“Yes, Ada,” Elrohir said sulkily, “Can I ride you now?”

Erestor decided that Elrond was on verge of a full-blown panic-attack. So wisely, he said, “Come, young lord, I will take you to the stables. We can ride on my stallion,” Elrond sighed in relief, Erestor continued blithely, “I fear though that Ebony will not give you as good a ride as your Ada Elrond.”

Elrond sighed, he wanted to retort. But he supposed he should be glad that Erestor was voluntarily offering to relieve him of the elfling. As Erestor scooped up Elrohir into his arms, he turned back and gave Elrond a warm look that promised a passionate night. Elrond blushed and buried his head in work, he could hardly wait.

 

Celebrían walked slowly to her father’s talan. She had no company these days. Haldir was almost always at the borders. Celeborn was immersed in the matters of the realm. All her former friends were married and busy with their families. She felt lonely. Anoriel no longer visited her homeland. Her time was entirely taken up by her duties as the Queen of Greenwood. Celebrían sighed, she had not seen Anoriel or Thranduil since the celebration feast for the birth of the twins years ago. 

“I wanted to tell you that if you wish to be with him or anyone else, I will not oppose,” Galadriel’s voice was soft.

“I truly do not wish to speak of that,” Celeborn’s voice seemed polite, yet, distant. 

Celebrían paused, then deciding that she had the right to call upon her own father any time, she knocked on the door resolutely. The voices fell silent before Celeborn gave a curt permission to enter. 

Galadriel was standing at the balcony, wrapped in a heavy silvery cloak that Thranduil had gifted her. Not for the first time, Celebrían wondered how her mother could possibly find a place in Thranduil’s heart. 

“’Bría,” Celeborn’s voice was irresolute, “I am glad to see you, my child,” he gave her a fond smile.

Galadriel stiffened slightly as she turned to meet Celebrían’s cold eyes. 

She murmured quietly, “I shall have to leave now, Lord Celeborn. There are a few pressing errands I must see to immediately,” she did not meet her husband’s eyes, “I wish you both a good day.”

As they watched her retreat hastily, Celeborn said wryly, “She has never learnt to lie to my face, the fool. ‘Bría, my dear, I must say that you have achieved what even Melian the Maia could not.”

“And what would that be, Ada?” she smiled as she sat down on the soft armchair looking around the freshly renovated chambers. Her father loved the best of the small luxuries of life. Silken robes, mithril circlets, the finest stallions, the Dorwinion, the pleasures of the flesh, luxurious bed chambers and all the rest. He was quite particular about changing the décor of his talan with each season.

“You managed to make her take the course of retreat,” he laughed as he seated himself beside her, “That, my daughter, is something not many have achieved.”

“I could not help overhearing her words. She was actually giving you her permission to take another lover?” Celebrían asked disbelievingly, “Her relationship with Thranduil has changed her more than we expected.”

“Yes,” Celeborn said thoughtfully, “They have a close bond, though I have no idea how they managed to find common ground.”

“Thranduil is rather fond of the Noldor in general despite what he says,” Celebrían pointed out, “Think of his deep friendship with Erestor, the long affair with my husband that he continued till we were married. He gets along better with Glorfindel and Gildor than with the nobles of our lands.”

“He gets along well with everyone,” Celeborn laughed, “I think that is obvious.”

After spending an afternoon with his daughter, he returned to his talan. The sweet fragrance of the evening breeze put him in a better mood. He decided to go and speak to his wife. They had to sort out matters in case Galadriel, in the current mood of generosity, invited Rúmil to his chambers. Celeborn had no wish to see the young elf again, he was sure that he would not be so easily forgiven.

He made his way to her private gardens where she usually spent her evenings. This he had ascertained by charmingly asking one of her escort. He casually pushed his hair away from his face and walked confidently to the bower. His eyes widened in shock. She was barely standing on her feet, clinging to the vines for support. Hastily he caught her and eased her against him.

A few moments later, she said faintly, “I am fine, My Lord.”

“The mirror,” he said angrily, his good mood was thoroughly spoilt, “Do you have to do this alone when you very well know that you tire so much?”

She did not reply. For a moment, he thought that it would result in one of their inevitable arguments. But when she did not pull away from his body, he was pleasantly surprised. 

“It is my burden,” she said quietly. She did not protest when his arms snaked around her, pulling her closer. 

“I never expected you to leave so meekly when ‘Bría came,” he observed amusedly even as he dared to bring his lips above one of her ears. There would be no point in continuing the topic of the mirror and its effect on her. And he was firmly determined not to argue now.

“That was the condition,” she said flatly, “It was not meekness, I was just honouring my commitment to our agreement.”

He chuckled at her righteous tone; he had missed it too much. She tentatively rested her head in the crook of his neck and breathed deeply. His fingers trailed through her hair down the nape of her neck making her shiver.

“I wished to talk regarding our agreement, shall I court you again?” he asked tenderly, pressing his lips to her forehead. She shivered slightly, but lifted her head slightly to give him a better angle.

“I am yours, damn the courting,” she muttered, “But,” she withdrew panicked, “Celeborn, there are things we must discuss. My captivity by the orcs and the tortures. Celeborn, I don’t think you can ever touch me after all that happened to me there.”

He knew it was one of the few time in their tumultuous relationship that she doubted herself. He gently pulled her shivering form into his embrace again and held her tight.

“Damn the orcs, Altáriel, if you can bear my touch after all my straying, then what makes you think that I cannot bear yours?,” he said softly, “And don’t you ever dare presume my actions. I will show you something.”

She frowned, but smiled helplessly when he tweaked her cheeks fondly. He seated her in the bower and stood back. With dramatic flourish, he untied the laces of his robe and stepped out of it. She gasped and looked around nervously before blushing and staring at his body. 

“Celeborn!” she took a sharp breath and blushed even more. Wonderingly she stood and approached him before reaching to touch his chest.

“Like it?” he grinned mischievously, “I thought you might. The blush on your cheeks is most enticing, I say.”

“Celeborn!” she hissed, “Only you would!” she touched the runes notched on his chest right above his heart, Sindarin, she felt a sense of sadness. Quenya would have been perfect. His hands directed her to the other side, Quenya. She laughed slightly hysterical. He raised her chin and forced her to meet his gaze.

“Well?” he asked hopefully.

She shook her head in speechless shock. Then she bent to kiss the left side of his chest on which her name was engraved in Sindarin. Slowly, she moved to kiss the right side which had his name in Quenya.

“It must have hurt a lot,” she mumbled as she continued kissing his name.

“It did, but was worth it,” he said lightly, “But I don’t want you trying anything of the sort,” he broke into a chuckle as she looked up astounded at his suggestion, “Thalion did it for me. He gave me his word that he would not tell the prince. I hope he keeps it. Thranduil will never let us live it down.”

“You are mad,” she whispered as she knelt gracefully before him, her hands lingering on his abdomen. He arched back ever so slightly. She bit back a smile, he was rather sensitive here. She substituted her mouth for her fingers and felt an immediate response on his side. 

Celeborn watched her stunned wordless by pleasure, she was the only woman he had ever known who held no inhibitions in bed. Not that he had ever slept with a woman after knowing her. There was only one woman in his life, and that was Galadriel. When he craved for pleasure during their estrangement, he approached only male elves. He lost all coherent thoughts and clutched her hair as she took his organ into her mouth, moving with the steady confidence of millennia. Screaming her name, grunting, writhing, thrusting and howling, he fell on his knees beside her as he reached his climax and she released him.

“Age does not affect your stamina,” her voice held a bare trace of mischief. He shook his head weakly and claimed her lips in a passionate kiss. Her taste was mingled with his own. They gently lay down on the soft grass. Galadriel pulled his robes over them to cover Celeborn.

“Age does not affect your skills,” he mumbled, “You still know how to make me scream.”

A wily hand slipped between their entwined legs and tried to bring him back to an erection. He slapped it away fondly.

“Not here,” he entreated looking around for voyeurs. Their new found happiness seemed too precious to be made public right now.

“Why not?” she yawned tiredly, “I do believe that a bit of reciprocation would be greatly welcome.”

He did not complain when she traced the runes on his chest thoughtfully. She said amusedly, “You are mad, you know.”

“I decided to take up madness after I realized that was the only route to win your heart,” he laughed, “How else do you woo a mad woman of a mad family?”

“I love madness,” she mumbled as she tried to keep awake, “I think you should leave. I am sleepy.”

“I will take you to your talan,” he said determinedly, “I suppose it is not too wise to think I am welcome there.”

“I think you are,” she smiled, “But in the interests of the rumour mills we must stay apart. They are tired of sending messengers to many a realm concerning the current status of our marriage.”

“Damn the rumour mills,” he growled, “I am inviting myself back to your bed.” 

She did not reply, but merely tightened her hold on him. They drifted into reverie comfortably, their bodies entwined.

 

“My Lord,” Melpomaen said tentatively, “May we speak?” 

Glorfindel looked up at Melpomaen curiously. There was a determined, yet hesitant expression on his features. Making sure that the twins he was keeping an eye on were safely preoccupied with their mud fight, Glorfindel moved to make space for the young elf on the stone seat.

“Yes?” he asked politely, “Did Erestor ask for something?” 

“No,” Melpomaen said quietly, “This is about you and me,” Glorfindel’s eyes widened in almost comical horror, “My Lord, I must say this or it will be unfair to us both. I have fallen in love with you,” Glorfindel rose from the seat in shock.

“I do not wish for an answer or a rejection now,” Melpomaen faltered, “I will wait in the gardens at sunset for a reply.”

“Young lord,” Glorfindel said kindly, trying not to let the pure shock and disbelief overwhelm him, “You should know that I have loved another for more than a millennium.”

Shaking his head in mute appeal, Melpomaen whispered, “I will have your answer only at sunset.”

 

“Thalion!” Thranduil ran to the courtyard to join the healer, “What happened?”

“Orcs and wargs at the southern borders, My Lord,” Thalion said wearily attending to the lone elf who had stumbled into the courtyard soaked in blood and filth. 

“There were twenty in the patrol,” Thranduil said horrified.

“And one returns,” Thalion whispered.

“Elbereth,” Thranduil stared forlornly at the night skies, “I cannot lead a force there, can I?”

“No,” Thalion said decisively, “The wild men are attacking from the west of the Old Forest Road. You have to hold the paths. We cannot lose them.”

“But, Thalion,” Thranduil said hopelessly, “If I cannot secure the southern borders……”

“Thranduil,” Thalion said quietly, “We will win it back. For now, the paths must hold. We will be cut off from Imladris and Lothlórien else. I will send word to Lord Erestor. You must ride with the warriors and defeat the wild men. They are savage, these men from the eastern lands.”

“Where is the Queen?” Thranduil asked in a more controlled tone as he decided on his course, “I will not have her travelling in the woods now. Ask her to stay within these walls until the danger is past.”

“As you command,” Thalion bowed and left to carry out his orders.

Thranduil felt the forest screaming out to him for help. He shook his head wearily. He could not fight both the wild men and the orcs. Choices, life seemed to be an unending set of choices.

 

Erestor braced himself on his palms throwing his head back as Elrond writhed underneath him. Erestor was sure that the firm grip of Elrond’s legs about his neck was going to leave bruises for the rest of the week. High collar was top priority. As he thrust again, Elrond clenched his legs tighter making them both cry in pleasure.

“’RESTOR!” 

Glorfindel broke down the door with brute strength and entered panting heavily. Erestor stared at him shocked into numbness before swooping to clutch a coverlet. Hastily he covered Elrond and himself as much as possible before trying to speak. The Balrog Slayer was still staring at them speechless in shock. They must have made a ridiculous sight, Erestor sighed. Elrond was prone on the bed between Erestor’s splayed legs. His legs were still around Erestor’s neck. 

“Was that quite necessary?” Elrond panted, his cheeks tinged with red, “Really Glorfindel!”

“Get out!” Erestor said through clenched teeth even as Elrond tried to remove his legs from their perch without moving the scant coverlet that currently covered their lower bodies.

“Are you within…?” Glorfindel asked concerned as Elrond winced slightly, “I will wait outside,” he amended hastily as Erestor shot the coldest stare he could muster on at the time at him.

“My Lord Erestor,” servants called cautiously wondering probably about the destroyed door. 

Erestor gave up all hopes of an easy evening and buried his head on Elrond’s chest. Glorfindel beat a hasty retreat and they could hear him making up a story to send the servants away.

Elrond chuckled, the reverberation within his chest made Erestor grumble and look up, “What is so funny?”

“Just imagine!” Elrond said almost hysterical, “He must have seen you thrusting into me. And my arousal was at its peak. And my legs on your neck. And my body between your legs. And a free rear view of the chief-counsellor of the high-king. And--”

Erestor kissed him to silence the observations. Right now, he decided dully, he might as well as finish their pleasure comfortably. He would deal with Glorfindel later.

 

An hour later, Erestor dressed himself in a set of high-collared purple robes and restored his hair to a semblance of dignity before seeking out Glorfindel in his rooms. Elrond was asleep, tired out from their exertions. Erestor decided that Glorfindel had one more crime to account for: he had snatched Erestor from his second favourite pastime, that of watching Elrond sleep.

“I am so sorry,” Glorfindel said as Erestor entered the room with a perfect scowl on his face, “I had no idea. I mean, it was just sundown!”

“Well,” Erestor shrugged uncomfortably, “Sunset is Elrond’s favourite time. What was so important that you had to barge in like that?”

“Melpomaen,” Glorfindel groaned, “He says he is in love with me.”

“You have three choices,” Erestor said bitterly as he plopped onto the rug beside Glorfindel, “One, accept him and try to make the best of it as Menelwen did with Galdor. Two, accept him and try to reject him after a few weeks of fulfilling his dreams. Three, reject him outright.”

Menelwen had nearly gone insane from her love for his friend. Would Glorfindel give the young Melpomaen a chance? That would be disgracing Menelwen’s love. But there was no way that she could unite with Glorfindel. She had married another. Unless they wished to follow Erestor and Elrond on the road to eternal damnation, they could never be true soul-mates.

Glorfindel muttered darkly, “I cannot be faithless in love, Erestor, not now. I will explain as well as I can. I will be kind. But he will hate me ever. Still that is the only right path.”

Seeing Glorfindel’s thoroughly miserable mood, Erestor said casually, “You know what, Glor, you have levelled the field. My spying on you and Gildor in the stream of Nimrodel that day, you have now got even.”

“I believe I have got the upper hand,” Glorfindel laughed wryly, “Truly, Erestor, It is one sight I will carry with me till the end of time! The view I had, Valar! It beat even the one you saw at the base of the fountain in Lindon, you know, when Gildor was being explored by Thranduil.”

Erestor buried his head in his palms. He would never live it down.

* * *

“Are you all right, young lord?” Lindir asked the silent elf who stood forlornly beside the fireplace in the Hall of Fire.

“I am as well as you are,” Melpomaen sighed, “I think I should retire.”

Lindir watched the young elf walk away with slightly hunched shoulders. Shaking his head sadly, Lindir walked to the riverside. 

“Lindir!,” Erestor was walking towards him jauntily. Lindir assumed that the chief-counsellor’s nightly swim was over for the dark hair was damp and the robes clung to his body.

“Melpomaen has been turned down, I fear,” Lindir sighed, “Why is life so cruel to even the most innocent of us?”

“Mellon-nîn,” Erestor hooked his hand through Lindir’s arm and continued speaking lightly, “It is better that Melpomaen faced rejection now. If Glorfindel had accepted him, it would have been a farce. Glorfindel has long given his heart to a woman who sailed years ago. Though I love him as a brother, Melpomaen deserves a better person, someone who can actually love him.”

“I suppose you are right, My Lord,” Lindir exhaled deeply, “I have no wisdom in these matters.”

“But there is someone who intrigues you,” Erestor said quietly, “I can see that in your eyes, my friend.”

“Would you voluntarily embroil yourself in yet one more tangled matter, My Lord?” Lindir smiled sadly before pulling his hand from Erestor’s and walking away.

Erestor was about to call him back when Glorfindel’s voice hailed him urgently. He turned around to face his friend. With Glorfindel was Mithrandir. Erestor smiled in greeting and hurried to their side, making a mental note to pursue Lindir’s matter later.

“Thranduil needs you,” Mithrandir said without any customary greeting, “The eastern and southern parts of Greenwood is entirely under attack.”

“Does he have enough forces?” Erestor asked alarmed at the news.

“Yes,” Mithrandir hesitated, “At least he says so. I do think that your presence is required there. Thranduil needs your counsel.”

“I will go tonight,” Erestor said quietly, shaking his head at Glorfindel’s look of protest. 

He wondered how to tell the news of his immediate departure to Elrond. He turned to the west. Elrond was standing on the terrace of his rooms, clad in a simple tunic and leggings, his hands holding a book. Obviously, he had been reading in his chambers and had come out hearing the arrival of guests. Sighing, Erestor made his way to Elrond. Elrond did not speak as they stood mere inches from each other.

“I must go,” Erestor said simply as their eyes met, “Thranduil has asked for my counsel.”

“Go then,” Elrond sighed as he averted his gaze to the stars, “He will not summon you unless matters are grave. Tell him that I wish I could come too. I will, if he calls.”

Erestor looked down into the gardens, they seemed deserted except for Mithrandir and Glorfindel. He moved forward to embrace Elrond, breathing in the familiar reassuring scent. 

Elrond shifted slightly to bring their lips together for a kiss. His arms twined around Erestor’s body and clenched the ribs unwilling to relinquish their hold. 

“Tell the children that I did not want to wake them in the night,” Erestor said quietly, “I will write as soon as I can.”

 

“The passes are dangerous,” Mithrandir remarked as Erestor led his horse out, “I wish I could accompany you.”

“It is all right,” Erestor smiled reassuringly, “Glorfindel will come with me till the high pass. From there I can ride alone to Lothlórien. Gildor’s warriors are there, with them, I can go to Greenwood.”

Mithrandir looked at him carefully before sighing, “Don’t let your guard drop at any time. I saw some of the bodies in Greenwood, it was terrible.”

A hand tapped Erestor’s shoulder, he turned to find Glorfindel armoured and armed. Erestor willed himself not to remember Eregion or Mordor where he had seen Glorfindel in a similar armour. Giving a tight smile, he mounted his stallion.

Elrond came to their side with two young sleep-tousled elves in tow. Erestor gave Elrond a disapproving look before dismounting again and kneeling before the twins.

“It was rude of you not to tell us,” Elrohir complained, “You did promise to take us with you to Greenwood soon.”

“I want to, but Thranduil has no children and you will be terribly bored,” Erestor offered lamely, “The next time.”

“We want you to be here for our begetting day,” Elladan warned imperiously, “Otherwise,” he patted Elrond’s leg, “he will be our favourite Ada.”

“Oh Eru!” Erestor said with mock fear, “I will not allow that happen! I promise to be there long before that!”

“I will have you waylaid,” Elrond laughed, “I am finally getting a chance to be their favourite Ada and you can rest assured that I will try to win by crook or nook.”

As he waved goodbye to his friend, he felt a twinge of foreboding. For Thranduil to call for help, things must be very grave indeed. Elrond stayed in the gardens a long while after Mithrandir and the twins had retired. He would wait for Glorfindel to return and seek some solace by the river until then.

 

Thranduil returned to his keep battle-bloodied and nearly collapsing exhaustedly on his feet. He barely noticed Thalion dragging him into a chamber and removing his armour and clothes. He mumbled a few words of gratitude as he was helped into warm bath.

“Thank the Valar that you are not wounded,” Thalion clucked as he began rinsing Thranduil’s matted hair, “You look worse for the wear though. I hope things are satisfactory there.”

“The wild men are all dead,” Thranduil said dully, “If that is what you meant by satisfactory. We did manage to capture half a dozen to question later. Keep them alive, I want answers. The southern borders are still being ravaged by orcs. I will ride out later. Gildor said he was coming with his warriors and a regiment of Celeborn’s troops,” he fell silent before stirring himself again out of his reverie, “I remember having a wife. Where is Anoriel?”

“She felt uncommonly tired yesterday. I gave her a sleeping draught and sent her to bed,” Thalion murmured.

“Fine,” Thranduil yawned, “Just help me to a bed, and give me something to gnaw on. I will look in on her soon.”

 

Erestor rode at a breakneck speed towards Caras Galadhon. He wanted to catch up with Gildor’s troops before they left Lothlórien. The situation in the passes was disastrous. He wondered how the dwarves could tolerate such incursions in Dimrill Dale. The orcs had nearly overwhelmed Glorfindel and him, it was only their experience that had saved them. He hoped that his friend had safely returned to the valley. No wonder that Thranduil refused to send messengers to Imladris, instead preferring to send them to Celeborn. From there, Gildor’s warriors brought the messages to the valley.

“My Lord!” he halted his mad race through the trees as a female voice hailed him. Galadriel approached him smiling.

“Lady Galadriel,” Erestor wondered if he should run away as fast as he could, a smiling Galadriel was far dangerous than a dozen orcs.

“If you will send your messages to me, I will make sure that they reach Elrond,” she said without formalities.

Erestor sighed as he dismounted and regarded her suspiciously, “Why would you do that?”

“Let us just say that the letters must not fall into my daughter’s hands,” she smiled grimly, “In all our interests. My marriage is steady now. And your secret is not threatened. A case of mutual interests.”

“That is something I understand,” he smiled back and raised her hand to his lips, “I will do as you asked. Now, I must hurry to intercept Gildor or he will leave without me.”

“Yes,” she hesitated for a moment before moving forward and embracing him, “Please be safe,” she cleared her throat before stepping away, “You are of no use to anyone dead,” she explained wryly.

Erestor did not comment on her sudden burst of affection and said sincerely, “I will try my best to be safe. And before you ask, I will keep an eye on Thranduil.”

 

He reached Gildor’s warriors around midday and was eagerly welcomed by them. They continued their journey east. 

Gildor looked him over critically before saying amusedly, “You look as if you are coming from an orc lair.”

“The mountains are orc-realm,” Erestor muttered angrily as he tried to catch a surreptious glance of himself in the stream they were passing, “I daresay I look bad enough to be mistaken for one of your filthy company.”

“Aren’t we proud?” Gildor rolled his eyes, “I can promise you that you will be in far worse a state after this fight. So why has Thranduil sent for his sparring partner? The wild men, who waylaid the eastern roads, have all been decimated. And orcs have fallen back for now.”

“I hope that I get to kill something,” Erestor said darkly, “After all the riding I have done to get here.”

“You will,” Gildor said in a less jovial tone, “I think this is the return of the evil of Mordor.”

Erestor said fervently, “I hope you are wrong, but my instinct tells me that you are not. We no longer have the strength to fight him.”

 

Thranduil hastened to the courtyard to receive the warriors of Gildor. To his immense surprise, he found a rather familiar face amongst them. 

“ERESTOR!” he called out in joy before rushing to embrace his dishevelled, travel-weary friend, who still managed to exude an air of royalty.

“Ernil-nîn,” Erestor smiled as he returned the embrace whole-heartedly, “I assume you did not expect me to arrive so quickly.”

“No,” Thranduil admitted as he stood back and inspected his friend, “You look terrible though, come in, let me see you to the bath and fresh robes.”

“And food and drink,” Gildor cut in, “He is near fainting from starvation. I entrust him to you then, I will see to the warriors.”

Thranduil smiled at him in agreement and dragged Erestor inside. As he deposited his friend at the dining table and went to call for food, Anoriel entered with a spring in her step.

“Erestor!” she said joyfully as she embraced him from behind and pressed a kiss to his forehead, “We did not expect you so soon.”

“Something is different,” Eresor murmured absently as he peered at Anoriel. She shrugged and went to hug her husband.

Thranduil frowned as he echoed Erestor, “Something is different.”

“Stop that,” Anoriel wagged a finger warningly as she led him to sit near Erestor, “Both of you will eat now, then see to the threats to our lands. I will see to it that the first of the Thranduillions will meet you soon.”

“ELBERETH!” Thranduil shot up from his chair in disbelief, “Is it true?”

Anoriel pushed him down and scowled saying, “Of course it is, one would think that you did not want it to be true; how stupid, after all that we have done to get an heir.”

“My congratulations to both of you,” Erestor offered sincerely, “Anoriel, do write to Elrond and Celeborn immediately. They were both very anxious for this news.”

“I have,” she laughed, “I do hope that they can come here for the feast after birth.”

“Slow down,” Thranduil placed his hand on his head wearily, “All this is too much for my poor brain, you are with child, our child! And why are you walking about? GET INTO BED and don’t come out until the child is born. We must see to a lot of things, we must assign more maids to your care…and send word to your mother and…”

“Shut up,” Anoriel advised as she shoved a plate of cheese towards him, “You sound as if you were with child and not me.”

Thranduil looked at Erestor for support, but the chief-counsellor shrugged saying, “Don’t ask me to explain the intricacies of the female mind. I have never understood it.”

 

“Anoriel is pregnant,” Celeborn told his wife as they walked together through the woods, “Thranduil must be excited, I mean, he has never been through anything of the sort before.”

Galadriel smiled before saying soberly, “The child was conceived on the anniversary of our exile from Tirion. A dark day, yet a day we were filled with hope. The child will one day be a beacon of hope to us.”

“There is something you have left out,” Celeborn stared at his wife suspiciously.

“Nothing,” she smiled sadly, “A trifle. The child will be the last elf born to those of us in Middle-Earth. The world changes. It no longer needs us.”

* * *

“My Lord Celeborn,” Haldir entered the talan and bowed to Celeborn, “My brother wishes to return home. He will come with the turn of the season.”

Celeborn looked down at where his wife was walking alone and sighed. He knew that their current happiness was too good to last. He did not want to deal with Rúmil now. But he could not put it off any longer. 

“Please ask him to accompany one of Gildor’s troops,” Celeborn said quietly, “I would not want him to ride alone. The passes are dangerous. Nobody has ridden alone after Erestor did that last year.”

“I will send word to my brother,” Haldir bowed, “If I may, shall I stay in Caras Galadhon for a few weeks? Lady Celebrían has expressed interest in spending time with me.”

“Please,” Celeborn said politely, “Marchwarden, you are welcome to stay if you can put a capable elf in charge at the borders.”

As the marchwarden left, Celeborn sighed and made his way down to his wife’s side. She was singing something off-key as she smiled and turned to face him. There was an open letter in her hands, which seemed to be the reason for her happiness.

“An admirer I should duel?” Celeborn asked smiling back at her.

She hooked her arm in his and they began walking slowly. The first leaves of autumn were starting to fall. Celeborn brushed away a withered leaf that had fallen onto Galadriel’s hair.

“Simply a letter from Lord Thalion. He is describing the noble efforts of Thranduil and Erestor to hold Anoriel under lock and key until the birth. I think the prince will make a fiercely protective father,” Galadriel smiled, “All the Sindar are, according to my observations. I could never believe that Thingol assigned only women to his daughter’s tutoring.”

“Are you deliberately drawing your poor husband into a debate concerning the parenting skills of the Sindar and Noldor?” Celeborn asked amusedly.

“No,” Galadriel leant her head onto his shoulder and sighed contentedly, “It is no debate. The Noldor have never been good parents.”

“Ah! The tales I heard of our grandchildren being raised in Imladris are different. Elrond and Erestor have spoilt them to the hilt,” Celeborn laughed, “The twins are going to be true terrors when they grow up.”

“Celeborn,” Galadriel asked solemnly, “It is unlikely that Erestor can cross the mountains this year. The twins could come to Lothlórien and celebrate their begetting day here. They will be of age now. And so could Elrond. I will make sure that ‘Bría does not suspect anything of their relationship. She misses the children so. I can feel it. Would you invite them?”

“As ever, I give in,” Celeborn said sincerely, “It means a lot to me that you think of her happiness. I will write to Elrond. And Eleriel wants her daughter to come here for the Solstice. It is tradition for the Sindar that we celebrate the child’s birth in the mother’s home.”

“I would be happy to see Thranduil again,” Galadriel smiled, “And Thalion. And Elrond. We haven’t had a true gathering since the days in Lindon. I agree with you on this.”

Celeborn smiled fondly as her happiness warmed their bond. Then he remembered Haldir’s words. He did not want to broach this topic and sunder them again. But he had to, they had both agreed to not keep any more secrets.

“Haldir’s brother, Rúmil, wishes to return home,” he said hesitantly.

“Let him come with Elrond’s convoy,” she said quietly, “Celeborn, You told me when we reunited that you would never let the past come between us though it may haunt us both. I believe that you owe young Rúmil an apology. Settle the matters with him when he returns.”

“I don’t deserve your forgiveness or that of Rúmil’s,” Celeborn said mournfully, gazing at their entwined fingers.

“You shall always have mine,” Galadriel said softly, “And I hope that he will forgive you too. Celeborn, you are the only living soul that ties me to this land. If I did not have you as my anchor, I would be a wraith seeking to win impossible victories.”

“We shall prevail, Altáriel,” he said with quiet conviction, “You shall be absolved and we shall step onto the lands of your birth together. This I promise, by all that I hold dear.”

 

“Did you see her?” Erestor burst into Thranduil’s study, “She is not in her chambers when I went to check.”

“She is with Thalion,” Thranduil leant back into his chair, “They have sealed themselves in the healing halls. You and I cannot go there, mellon-nîn, those are Thalion’s domain.”

Erestor sighed and walked to the window sill.

“Would you come with me?” Erestor asked after half-an-hour of companionable silence, “There is something I discovered when I last visited Erebor.”

“I have finished for the day,” Thranduil rose to his feet, “Riding will do me good. Being here will just get me worried for her.”

They led out their mounts and began riding recklessly underneath the green forest that they both loved so much. Thranduil could feel the pleasure of the land rise in his veins as it gladly watched elves ride through. Giddy with excitement, he levelled the distance between them and challenged Erestor. He laughed as Erestor prodded his stallion and charged forward. While Erestor might have stood a chance in any different terrain, Thranduil knew smugly that Greenwood was his domain. He laughed again as Erestor swerved to avoid a fallen log and lost the lead. 

“Here!” Erestor shouted and skidded to a sharp stop. Thranduil turned around and joined him more languidly.

As they fought to catch their breath, Thranduil panted, “You are out of shape, Lord Counsellor. A few centuries ago, you would have had better breath control.”

Erestor harrumphed, “Indeed, Ernil-nîn, it is not only me who is panting!”

They led their mounts up the sharp cragged rocks. Thranduil wondered what marvel Erestor had seen in these rocky hills. Thranduil had always avoided the place like the plague. It reminded him of the caves where Elrond and he had been once taken prisoners by slavers from the south.

Erestor paused as they reached a cove-like landing. He leant against the rock face and waited for Thranduil to approach.

“I see no reason why you would call this place remotely interesting,” Thranduil muttered angrily as he wiped off the sweat from his forehead.

“Solid bedrock, Ernil-nîn,” Erestor tapped the rocks with the air of a veteran, “And the chain extends to miles and miles around, the river has hewn through them and hollowed the inner layers.”

“I didn’t know that you were so interested in mines,” Thranduil raised an eyebrow sceptically, “I do think that the typical Noldo forging temperament is rising in you, my friend.”

“Does the idea of this large natural tunnel network suggest nothing to your royal head?” Erestor asked incredulously.

“Maybe I can build a lodging home for my trading allies in Erebor,” Thranduil suggested snidely, “The dwarves will appreciate it.”

“By Elbereth, Thranduil,” Erestor pounded his fist on the rocks, “Menegroth, Nargothrond, Gondolin; do the names mean nothing?”

“I will not live below the ground in caves, however dangerous the lands become!” Thranduil snarled furiously, “How could you even have the gall to suggest it?”

“I would like a reason why you would object to this,” Erestor stood his ground calmly, his dark eyes scrutinizing his friend’s emerald ones.

“I hate caves,” Thranduil said discomposedly, “I always have hated them.”

“A retreat, a mere safety precaution in times of danger. You don’t have to live here,” Erestor crossed the distance between them and placed his hand on Thranduil’s, “At least for the women and children in times of strife. For Anoriel and your soon to be born son. The times are changing, Ernil-nîn. It is no longer safe to wander under the eaves of these forests. We both know this.”

“It makes sense,” Thranduil sighed and squeezed Erestor’s hand, “Anything you say always makes sense. I am glad you are here.”

“And I am glad that I am here,” Erestor rested his head on Thranduil’s shoulder, “I have missed our times together in Lindon. Even Mordor was less a torment because I had you, Elrond and Glor.”

“Come with me to Erebor. We shall ask the dwarves to aid us in hewing the caves, I think Thalion still has the original layouts of Menegroth,” Thranduil laughed, “Thalion will be the most eager volunteer. He loved the caves of Doriath!”

“When we return from Lothlórien after celebrating your child’s first Solstice, we shall begin the construction,” Erestor smiled as they started the descent.

 

“Ada,” Elrohir bound into Elrond’s study enthusiastically, “A letter from Grandfather.”

“Knocking doors,” Elrond began half-heartedly as he took in the sight of the young elf clad in muddied clothes and riddled with cuts and bruises from the Valar-knew-what activities the child must have been pursuing.

“I know,” Elrohir cut in, “Knocking doors is what polite elves do. But Glorfin’l told me that we have all eternity to learn politeness. So we must try not to be polite when we are young.”

“Give me the letter,” Elrond sighed as Elrohir launched into yet another ‘Glorfin’l-told-me-so’ speech.

Ignoring the young elf, Elrond leant back in his chair and began reading.

“Call your brother and come here,” Elrond ordered the child who nodded enthusiastically and ran out.

Moments later; a curious Glorfindel, an impatient Elladan and a still talking Elrohir were assembled in the room. Elrond watched them for a moment. The Balrog Slayer was as impeccably clad as ever in a white tunic and blue leggings. Looking at his figure would never help guess at his age. But Elrond knew the truth in those eyes. The sapphire eyes which had held only happiness and goodwill once were now haunted by regrets, loss and pain. Menelwen had left behind only a ghost of the elf she had loved so. Her banner was what he still carried on each expedition.

Elrond shifted his gaze to Elladan, who was impatiently picking at his nails. Something in the child reminded him of Elros, the impatience, the enthusiasm for life and the excellent fighting skills so fine for one so young. Elladan had a permanent crinkle about his grey eyes as a result of too much smiling. Elrond could see more of Elros in the boy than he could discern the fire of the house of Finwë. 

Elrohir was a different case. Alike in appearances to his brother, but so distinct in personality. There was a mixture of compassion and ruthlessness in the boy that reminded Elrond of Erestor, Maglor, Maedhros, Galadriel, Gildor and the others of their house. 

“You taught us it is rude to stare,” Elrohir pointed out imperturbably.

Elrond cleared his throat and began reading.

“Dear Elrond,

I would like to invite you to the Solstice celebration this year. Erestor will be here. Gildor too will come. Thranduil and Anoriel will bring their child to her mother. I wish to see my grandchildren. So does Galadriel. I hope that Glorfindel and you can manage to come here.

I plan to hold the twins’ coming of age and Thranduil’s child’s birth celebrations at the same occasion.

It has been too long since we all met,  
Sincerely,  
Celeborn of Doriath.”

 

“Thranduil has finally made a son?” Elladan asked interestedly, “Can we go immediately? I bet I can beat Grandfather in sword fighting.” 

“Hmm…,” Glorfindel said nonchalantly, “The Silver Tree is an opponent of rare calibre. I am sure that he will spar with you and bruise that too large ego of yours, young lord.”

“Will Naneth be there?” Elrohir asked alluding to the portrait of the fair elf maiden which hung in Elrond’s study.

“I will make sure that she comes,” Elrond smiled indulgently, “After all, you come of age only once in eternity, is it not?”

“If we leave the next week, I think we might join Gildor and Círdan at the passes,” Glorfindel said thoughtfully, “Erestor and Thranduil will arrive there after Thalion decrees Anoriel healthy enough to travel. All right, Elrond, you see to it that Lindir takes charge here. I will go and make the patrol lists for the soldiers.”

 

“I think it is salty,” Anoriel made a face as she passed the dish to Erestor, “Thranduil, the cook is rather careless these days.”

“I will speak to him,” Thranduil nodded as he tried to not bite his nails as Erestor was doing across him. 

“You two, calm down,” Thalion advised, “It is perfectly safe to eat a small dinner outside, one would think that you have never seen a pregnancy before.”

“Of course we haven’t,” Thranduil muttered as he shot the obvious bulge of his wife’s stomach a fearful look, “It wasn’t a part of our training.”

“I have had enough,” Erestor set down his goblet, his pallor considerably more this night, “We should retire.” He got up determinedly.

“I am really amazed how two of the supposedly greatest warriors of this---AH!” Anoriel clasped Erestor’s hands as she tried to raise herself up, “IT has begun!” she said hoarsely.

“Oh Valar!” Thranduil got to his feet and rushed around the table to where Erestor was balancing Anoriel and himself both by leaning against a tree, “THALION, do something!”

“Young fools,” Thalion smiled as he walked over to where Erestor and Thranduil were both sweating profusely as they tried to hold a writhing Anoriel upright.

“Let her slide to the grass,” Thalion instructed as he examined her sodden gown, “It is all right, she will be fine. Just help her lie down.”

Thranduil managed to place her head on Erestor’s lap and hurried over to the other side, holding her legs in place, his face gaunt and frightened as she screamed.

“Elbereth,” Erestor soothed Anoriel’s brow fervently, “Thalion, can you not do something to reduce the pain?”

Thalion was about to answer when the young king of Greenwood shouted hysterically, “BLOOD! THALION, she is bleeding!”

“Frightened!” Anoriel breathed harshly, “Thalion, they are both frightened,” a wan smile lit her face before she screamed again.

“THALION!” Two voices panicked at once.

“ERU!” Thalion cursed wryly, “Anoriel, push harder, young lord, only a bit more,” he dragged the gown upwards carefully and squeezed her hand in solidarity.

Thranduil shook his head as he watched in morbid fascination the birthing process for the first time in his life. He felt light-headed as if he was about to faint.

“Elbereth,” Erestor whispered as Thalion eased out a writhing mass of an elfling from the bloodied mess between Anoriel’s legs.

The healer struck a sharp pat and the shrill cry of a new born elf resounded in the forests of Greenwood. Thranduil reached out reverently to touch the cheek of the elfling and whispered a prayer. Then he looked down at his wife. She lay in Erestor’s lap, exhausted, but exhilarated. Her drowsy blue eyes met his green ones in victory.

“We did it,” Thranduil laughed weakly, tears fell down his eyes, “You did it,” he bent down to press a kiss to her stomach uncaring of the others present.

“What will you name him?” Thalion prodded him as he placed the now cleaned up elfling in Thranduil’s shuddering hands.

Green eyes met green eyes and the babe smiled at its father. Thranduil had never seen anyone look upon him with such unmeasured, vulnerable trust. A soft green leaf fell down from the trees above them as if in benediction. 

“Born under the forest, under the trees, under the skies,” Thranduil whispered as the green leaf rested on the elfling’s quivering chest, “Hope, love, strength and trust you shall be to our people. I will name you our green leaf,” he reached down to touch the leaf on the child’s chest, “Laiqualassë. Legolas Thranduillion.”

“Welcome to Middle-Earth, Crown Prince Laiqualassë Thranduillion,” Erestor laughed happily as he helped Anoriel receive the elfling into her hands.

Thalion smiled as he watched the child gurgle excitedly on sensing his mother. He raised his eyes to the heavens and searched for a green star. If only Oropher had been there to see his son’s firstborn.

 

Elrond watched the stars absently. They would start their journey tomorrow. It was going to be the twins’ first trip east. The first trip they were making to their mother’s lands. It would be the first time they saw their mother. How would they react? He sighed, perhaps they would be more understanding if he told them the truth. 

Elrohir had asked Elrond and Erestor on countless occasions why he had to call them both ‘Ada’. They had never given him an answer. He had now stopped asking them.

“My Lord,” Lindir came to his side on the balcony.

“Yes?” Elrond turned to face him expectantly.

“What will you tell them? They will see their mother soon and it is but right that they are prepared for that meeting,” Lindir said hesitantly, yet with the air of an elf determined to see this through someway.

Elrond examined Lindir’s face, Erestor had once hinted to him that perhaps the older elf knew of their relationship more than they suspected.

“I will say that their mother had to remain behind in Lórien to help her father in the administration,” Elrond said impassively, “What else must they be told?”

* * *

“LO!” Glorfindel hailed as they met the large contingent from the western lands, “GILDOR!”

“Hail Glorfindel!” Gildor laughed as he rushed up the path to join his friend, “Well met, indeed! Where are the young sons of Imladris?”

“Elrond has forbidden them to stray from the middle of the escort,” Glorfindel said seriously, “He is right, the paths are dangerous.”

They joined forces and made their way onwards.

“Círdan left before me, he was eager to see Thranduil and Erestor as soon as possible,” Gildor said informatively.

“That is fine,” Elrond joined them, “I, for one, don’t miss him.”

 

Elladan watched his father and Glorfindel fall easily into their banter as they rode alongside each other. It was remarkable, Elladan mused, that their friendships did not suffer in the least from distance and time.

“One day, we too will boast of such loyal friends,” Elrohir cut into his thoughts mischievously, “Do not worry, brother-mine.”

“I can’t wait to see Ada Erestor,” Elladan said wistfully, “I have missed him.”

“So have I,” Elrohir said full-heartedly, “And I want to see Grandmother again. And I am looking forward to seeing Grandfather and Thranduil. Glorfindel has told us so many tales of their days in Lindon that I expect them to be the most remarkable elves.”

“Are you looking forward to seeing Naneth?” Elladan cleared his throat after making sure that the older elves were not around them.

“Are you?” Elrohir countered, an expression of uncertainty on his face.

“I think that I want to see her. And to talk with her about all of this,” Elladan trailed off unconfidently.

“In short, you want to know why she never visited us, why she has never written to us…,” Elrohir bit his lips, “I am torn into two, I want the answers. But I am not sure that I would like them.”

“We will do it together,” Elladan said defiantly, “But we will certainly seek out our answers.”

“Anything interesting, young lords?” Gildor called out to them good-humouredly.

“We were merely whiling away the time seeing that all of you are too engrossed to bother speaking to us,” Elrohir smiled at the leader of the wandering company.

Elladan wondered how his twin could be so misleading at times. Diplomacy was Elrohir’s forte. Elladan had always preferred training with Glorfindel than to learn the mindgames that Erestor loved to teach. Elrond’s lessons were always mutually unsatisfactory. Elrond’s famed patience failed him when he had to teach the twins. And they, in turn, found his lessons dry. Despite all the hopes that Elrond had in their healing skills, Elladan and Elrohir were quite sure that they would not learn anything beyond first aid. But Elladan loved sparring with Elrond, whose technique was far more brutal and effective than Glorfindel’s. 

“It has not snowed much,” Glorfindel joined him, “Usually the passes are clogged with snow at this time of the year.”

“It must be eerie at night,” Elladan observed as his eyes wandered restlessly over the cragged mountains and the perilous slopes, “I don’t know how you ride alone through these lands.”

“Wolves keep us company,” Glorfindel laughed, “And thesedays orcs are also quite obliging.”

 

They reached Lothlórien later that evening. Haldir came to greet them and led them onwards to the city of Caras Galadhon, where Amdir had once ruled. The marchwarden did not talk, and there was no attempt from the visitors’ side to engage him in conversation.

“It is an eerie place,” Elladan spoke as he observed the high trees and the sparkling lights. It was as if the sun and the moon had no existence in the place. 

“Your grandparents are powerful people,” Glorfindel said quietly, “This is now the heart of elvendom, tranquil and serene as once Valinor was.”

“Do you miss the lands from where you were exiled?” Elladan blurted out, then bit his lips. He had been warned by both Elrond and Erestor many a time that he should not ask Glorfindel of Valinor.

“I regret nothing,” Glorfindel said coldly as he moved his horse forwards to catch up with Elrond. 

 

“Elrond, Glorfindel,” Celeborn smiled cordially as he advanced to meet the party from Imladris, “You are earlier than I had expected. My grandchildren.” 

Elladan and Elrohir bowed to the elf-lord and looked up in awe at their grandfather, the famed Silver Prince of Doriath. Celeborn laughed happily as he bent down to catch them both in a tight hug.

“How you have grown,” a female voice remarked, and the twins were released from their grandfather’s hold.

“Lady Galadriel,” they spoke as one and Galadriel smiled, coming forward to press her lips to their cheeks.

“Welcome to Lothlórien,” she said warmly before moving away to embrace her nephew, Gildor, who looked rather surprised by her unusual show of affection.

“ADA!” the twins shouted as Erestor walked into the glade accompanied by a golden-haired, handsome elf.

Elrond flinched and Erestor stopped walking. Celeborn was looking shell-shocked. Galadriel looked worried as she walked to her husband’s side.

It was then that Elrohir whispered, “We are not supposed to call him that, I daresay.”

For a moment, it was quiet in the glade, then Celeborn opened his mouth to speak, his eyes cold.

The golden haired elf accompanying Erestor hastily intervened, “Ah! How the two of you have grown! Erestor, do introduce me to the young lords!”

Elladan decided that he liked the elf, the green eyes were sparkling with life and yet there were a wealth of regrets held in their depths. Elrond was visibly exhaling in relief.

“Indeed I shall,” Erestor recovered his composure, “The one wearing the red tunic is Lord Elladan and to his right stands Lord Elrohir. Elladan, Elrohir, this,” he glanced at his companion, “is the famed jewel of the Sindar, King Thranduil of Greenwood.”

“Erestor!” Thranduil laughed, “I am the best amongst us all! Not merely amongst the Sindar!”

“Arrogant idiot,” Elrond laughed as he came forward to embrace Thranduil warmly, “Where is your wife and the prince?”

“She is exhausted and Lady Celebrían is keeping her company,” Thranduil replied smiling, “Thalion has the prince.”

Erestor’s eyes met Elrond’s as they faced each other. 

“Elrond, well-met indeed,” Erestor murmured and turned towards Glorfindel, a slight flush rising on his pale cheeks. 

Elladan watched Elrond trying to answer Thranduil even as his eyes followed Erestor about the glade. Elladan was about to call Elrohir to point out Elrond’s staring when Celeborn left abruptly, a scowl marring his handsome features. Galadriel smiled at the rest of the party and followed her husband hastily. But Elladan noticed her shooting a sharp glance at Elrond even as she left.

“Well,” Glorfindel said lazily, “Come, Elladan, Elrohir, I will take you around the mystical lands of Lothlórien!”

“I will join you,” Gildor slung a friendly arm about Elladan’s shoulders and dragged him away. 

 

“You must be careful around Celeborn,” Thranduil said solemnly, “He has not yet forgiven you though he knows that it wasn’t your fault.”

“What of Celebrían?” Elrond asked sighing.

“She does not think herself ready yet to meet the children. She is with Haldir,” Thranduil replied, his eyes darkening, “I am sure that she will be there for the celebrations from this eve.”

Elrond met Erestor’s deep, black eyes that held the same desire and longing that was rising in his blood.

“There is no way you can steal away together here,” Thranduil sighed as he realized their yearning, “We must all be careful, especially in company. Come, I will take you to my wife and son.”

“Yes,” Elrond nodded in acquiescence as Thranduil led them towards a large flet. 

It was maddening to be so near to Erestor and not to be able to even brush his fingers. The fresh pinewood scent of Thranduil and the earthier scent of Erestor assailed Elrond’s senses. The two persons he loved the most in his life. He smiled thinly, somehow, all their losses had thrown them inextricably together.

Thranduil’s emerald green eyes turned towards him and the king said softly, “I know that we will always be there for each other, come what may.”

“If what you say is true then I shall consider ourselves blessed despite everything,” Erestor said fervently. 

They ascended the flet and entered the tastefully decorated rooms. Anoriel smiled happily from the low couch where she sat. On the balcony, holding the young elfling was Celebrían. She blanched as she saw the guests. 

Elrond noticed that she looked worn out and melancholy. Her beautiful face was lined lightly and the blue eyes were murky. He felt a pang of guilt and sympathy rise in him. She had wanted to see her children so much. And he had never let them leave Imladris. In his own way, he had been callously taking revenge for her actions so many years ago. It sickened him.

“’Bría,” he smiled tentatively as he crossed the distance between them, “So this is the princeling!”

He looked down at the squirming bundle in her hands. Green eyes looked up at him mischievously. Elrond fingered a flaxen-gold wisp on the bonny head. It felt like silk, like Thranduil’s hair had once been before war and loss though the tint of gold was lighter. Elrond felt a shudder pass through him, had it really been so long since he had first met Prince Thranduil Oropherion in Lindon?

“Laiqualassë. We are calling him Laiqua. He seems so like my cousin,” Celebrían said quietly, “Only the hair is Anoriel’s.”

“Will you come with us to see our children?” Elrond looked up at her, even as a tiny fist curled possessively on his forefinger which he had been moving reverentially on the child’s soft cheek.

“What will they say?” Celebrían sighed, “I deserted them so unforgivably. But at the time, it was for the best.”

“It was not merely your fault, ‘Bría,” Elrond said quietly, “We will answer them together. They should not suffer for our mistakes.”

“I will take my son now,” Thranduil gently picked the child from Celebrían’s arms and retreated towards the couch. 

Erestor came to join Elrond and Celebrían, an uneasy expression on his noble features as if hesitant to intrude.

“Will you both stand on each side of me for the occasion?” Celebrían asked them quietly, “I would be honoured if you did.”

“We pledged once to die for you if be needed. We are yours to command, Celebrían,” Erestor smiled wanly, as he leant against the balcony and watched the wind ripple through the trees.

“I would be most happy too,” Elrond murmured as he watched the scene before him with warm joy.

Thranduil had leant his head back upon the couch, his eyes half-closed languidly. His deep green robes made him look a living portrait. On his lap was Anoriel’s head, her eyes glazed in reverie. Her hand still clutched the opening of Thranduil’s robes loosely as if unwilling to let him go. Thranduil clutched against his son against his chest tightly, one hand periodically rocking the child.

“They look complete,” Erestor remarked as he subtly leant towards Elrond, his robes brushing Elrond’s hands. 

“And I don’t begrudge them that,” Elrond replied easily, “There are different ways to achieve that happiness in life,” he took a deep breath of Erestor’s scent, “And I am sure that I am at least as happy as they are, if not more.”

Celebrían’s face lit up as she asked enthusiastically, “Does that mean that your love is finally requited?”

Erestor pretended to examine his nails carefully even as Elrond said firmly, “’Bría, I believe that the person has always loved me in his own way.”

Celebrían frowned, but Erestor cut in, “Come let us go and meet the twins, ‘Bría. They have been looking forward to see you for years. I know that they were upset when they didn’t see you at the glade where Celeborn welcomed them.”

They made for the gardens from where Glorfindel’s clear voice rose. Elrond smiled as they reached the clearing where Glorfindel and Gildor were engaged in hand to hand combat, their unclad upper torsos sweating and gleaming in the pale light. The twins were seated at the root of a large mallorn tree, cheerily encouraging the opponents. 

They rose uncertainly as Elrond, Erestor and Celebrían approached them. 

Glorfindel said cheerfully as he continued his sparring as deadly precise as ever, “Welcome, ‘Bría!”

“Glorfindel, Gildor,” she bowed before walking uncertainly towards her sons, fear and hope warring on her beautiful features.

“Naneth,” Elladan said quietly as she reached to cup his cheeks lovingly. Elrohir did not speak at all, instead staring at her with cold expectation.

“I think we will leave you now,” Glorfindel stopped his sparring and nodded to Gildor, who smiled warmly at the twins before following the Balrog Slayer.

“Why?” Elrohir asked beseechingly, “Why did you leave us? Why do we call two persons ‘Ada’? Why don’t we have a family like Thranduil does?”

“I did it for your good,” Celebrían said in a shaking voice, tears shimmering in her eyes as she tried to place her hand on Elrohir’s shoulder, he moved away and a tear fell onto her cheeks.

“It has been decades,” Elladan said softly, “Not a letter have we received, not a gift have we had, there must be a worthier explanation, Naneth. Why were you never there for us? Were you that disappointed in us?”

Elrond looked across at Erestor, whose eyes were haunted with deep pain and regrets. The long fingers were clenched together tightly, betraying Erestor’s inner turmoil.

“I think that you will have to be satisfied with my answer,” Galadriel walked towards them, her face set in resolute expression.

The twins turned towards her indecisively. Celebrían felt Elrond’s hands on her shoulders, soothing her gently. She moved away, his care could never compensate for his lack of passion towards her. She barely registered her mother speaking to the twins. She watched with horrified fascination as pain, fear, understanding and grief crossed her sons’ faces.

“I forced this marriage upon Elrond and my daughter,” Galadriel was saying calmly, “I had to do it to ensure that the line of Finwë survived. Elrond has always loved another for centuries. All of us knew that even before this marriage. But we had hoped that he would consummate this marriage for the greater good. He could not. And your mother was condemned to a most unhappy existence,” she looked across at Erestor irresolutely, he nodded imperceptibly, his eyes darkening in pain, “There was a lapse in judgement when she tried to seek pleasure. That was the reason for her isolation away from Imladris.”

Nobody spoke for a long time, Celebrían’s breath came in short spurts as her sons appraised her with inscrutable faces.

“Any grudge you bear, must be towards me,” Galadriel said quietly as she bowed to them, “My daughter is innocent.”

“We will speak more of this later. We need time,” Elladan said unsurely, “In the meantime, we would be most happy if you stood witness to our coming of age ceremony, Naneth.”

Tears escaped Celebrían’s eyes as she nodded mutely. Her eyes followed them as they left hastily with shaken expressions on their faces.

Elrond said quietly, “I will take you to your talan, ‘Bría,” he extended his hand as a dutiful husband, she accepted it numbly and left the clearing. Why had her mother done this? 

“Was I right?” Galadriel asked Erestor quietly, her eyes filled with doubts and self-loathing.

“You know you were,” Erestor crossed the distance between them and tentatively placed his hand on her wrist, “They will be of age this evening. It is better that they hear it from us than from anyone else.”

“What burdens you then?” she smiled bitterly. 

“The fact that I cannot make an entirely clean breast of it to the children, I want them to know the truth. But it is too sordid. I don’t want to make them judge her harshly,” Erestor said softly, “She has suffered more than she should have.”

“She has shrunken into a bitter soul here, parted from her children,” Galadriel remarked, “Will you let the twins stay here awhile? What are your plans?”

“We must ask Elrond,” Erestor sighed, “I will be returning with Thranduil to supervise the construction of those caves he told you about. And we will be taking a few sweeps to the south of Greenwood. After that I was planning to return to Imladris directly. If Elrond has no qualms in letting the twins stay here, then I shall come here from Greenwood on my return trip and take them home. That way, ‘Bría can spend time with the children.”

“Will you persuade Elrond?” Galadriel asked hopefully, “He will listen to you.”

“I will,” he smiled wanly as she looked at him with intense scrutiny.

“Macalaurë would have been proud of you,” she said quietly as she reached out a finger to touch the high cheekbone of her companion that was so similar to her own.

“He is dead, is he not?” Erestor asked bitterly, “Círdan has been trying to coddle me. And now, you too try to soothe me. So he must be dead. I am not a fool, Galadriel.”

“He sailed,” Galadriel closed her eyes in pain, “And yes, he said he would lie down in the gardens of Irmo and choose the path of Lady Míriel. Only we remain to fulfil our penance. Will you stand by me?”

“I have never seen any hope for our family’s cause,” Erestor replied hopelessly, “It is better to stop dreaming of the lands beyond the sea and live our lives as well as we can on Middle-Earth.”

“Sauron will rise again,” she said in a clear voice, “And I shall fight him with all I am. That is not for the hatred I bear him, but merely to bring my family from the void to the halls of Mandos. For that, I shall stop at nothing. Stand by me, nephew-mine.”

“I will stand by you,” Erestor said quietly, “Elrond has always known of the true extent of the curse on our family lines. And he will fight for our cause till the end. I will be by his side. Galadriel, it shall not be said that those of us who remain lie divided.”

 

“’Dan,” Elrohir said quietly as they lounged near the stream of Nimrodel, “What do we do?”

“I am scared,” Elladan replied truthfully, “I no longer bear the same grudge that I had towards her. I want her in our lives at least from now.”

“She has suffered more than we did,” Elrohir acquiesced, “At least Ada Elrond, Ada Erestor and Glorfindel were there for us always. But she was alone.”

Elrohir said uneasily, “You know, the tale in which Ada Elrond saved Ada Erestor in the battle after the high-king was slain in that battle, I wonder...”

“Whom does he love?” Elladan asked desperately, “That he cannot even try to love Naneth. Is this person so noble?”

“I have no idea,” Elrohir sighed, “Grandmother did not say, and we cannot ask anyone else. It must be male, because they were using ‘person’ instead of ‘her’. And moreover Ada Elrond could not have made acquaintance of many ladies. Do you think it is Thranduil?”

“No chance,” Elladan muttered as he flung a stone at his twin, “Thranduil’s love story is the epic.”

“Celeborn?” 

“Hopeless, Grandmother and Grandfather are quite the legends of eternal love,” Elladan laughed.

“Glorfindel was in love with Ada Erestor’s sister,” Elrohir mused, “Maybe it is someone we don’t know, Círdan? Gildor? Maybe Haldir, the marchwarden is handsome enough. Or would it have been Gil-Galad himself?”

“Gil-Galad was in mad love with Ada Erestor. Cannot have been him, knowing Ada Elrond, I think it must be a healer…maybe Thalion…,” Elladan yawned, “Celebrimbor?”

“Maybe it was Celebrimbor,” Elrohir said thoughtfully, as he sat up in a sudden move, “Ada Elrond has always had a soft corner for the descendants of Fëanor, you know. He still defends them anywhere. And Ada Erestor and he get along so well.”

“It cannot be Ada Erestor, can it be?” Elrohir continued in a soft, uncertain tone, “I mean Ada Elrond did bond and rescue him then.”

“It was for keeping him alive, you know their friendships are deep. He might have done the same to keep Thranduil alive too. Their bonds are almost as enduring as marriage bonds,” Elladan shrugged, “Lindir says that they have even faced death for each other. So they might have taken comfort from each other in their youth. But they cannot be in love as our grandparents are. Enough of this speculation, tell me, what will you do after the ceremony of our coming of age?”

“Get drunk, dance till I am falling on my feet and then find a good maid for tonight,” Elrohir said solemnly, “What say you?”

“Sounds good,” Elladan laughed merrily.

* * *

“And that we shall take on duty and hold to the ideals of our society and family, this we swear by our honour, by all that is dear to us,” Elladan and Elrohir recited faithfully after Celeborn the words that proclaimed their coming of age.

Celebrían smiled faintly as she stood between Elrond and Galadriel, her heart swelling with maternal pride. Across her stood Erestor and Thranduil, conducting a whispered conversation unmindful of Celeborn’s disapproving glaring.

“He is so handsome,” Galadriel whispered almost inaudibly.

Celebrían turned slightly to see whom Galadriel was staring so blissfully at, it was Celeborn. For a moment, a wry smile broke on Celebrían’s features. Her parents had always been in puppy love with each other.

“He is, indeed,” Celebrían said quietly watching with mild amusement as hectic colour rose in Galadriel’s pale cheeks. Her mother resembled Erestor so sometimes and this seemed to be one of those times.

“I am sorry, My Lady,” Galadriel said hastily, “I never meant to, that is, I did not mean…”

“He is your husband. I suppose that you are the one person allowed to unrestrainedly admire his beauty,” Celebrían said with a slight shrug, “The past cannot be changed, I realize, I will forgive you if you will never interfere with my sons’ lives. I want your word on it.”

“I cannot answer for the future,” Galadriel sighed, “But I can atone for the past.”

“You will never be at peace,” Celebrían said sadly, “I will try to forgive your actions, Naneth, and I shall pray that one day, you can be what you wish to be.”

“Thank you,” Galadriel said in a slightly husky tone, a cloud of emotion darkening her clear blue eyes.

 

Elladan walked aimlessly along the shores of the lake. He could see his twin flirting with a coy-looking maid across the water. He shrugged, it seemed that Elrohir had inherited Erestor’s charm. As he turned about, he saw a beautiful maiden clad in a sheer white gown walking slowly, her eyes closed languidly as she hummed softly.

“Lothlórien seems to have many a hidden treasure,” Elladan borrowed Glorfindel’s eloquence.

“My Lord Elladan,” the maiden opened her eyes and Elladan felt himself being carefully appraised by those cornflower blue eyes.

“How is your first day after coming of age?” she continued in a teasing tone.

“Bereft of company,” he offered her his arm and smiled giddily when she accepted with a gracious nod, “And how do you know me from my twin?”

“Perhaps I have seen you before,” she laughed, a clear sound that cooled his heart’s doubts and fears.

“You speak like my grandmother, in circles,” he complained querulously.

“I know her well, perhaps all the time I have spent with her has rubbed onto me,” she said good-humouredly.

“May I ask you how you know her?” he asked curious to know the identity of this maiden who seemed to be one of his grandmother’s aides.

“I grew up with your mother,” she replied quietly, “Your grandparents have often been my guardians.”

“And may I have the honour of your name, My fair lady?” he asked hopefully, drawing her hand to his lips for a gallant kiss.

“You are certainly enjoying your majority, young lord,” a familiar voice remarked. 

Elladan looked up with a blush to see Thranduil leaning against a tree, his eyes sparkling with mirth.

“My Lord Thranduil,” Elladan said as politely as he could, “I was merely making a new acquaintance.”

“I could have introduced her better,” Thranduil drawled lazily as he walked towards them.

“Why do you say so?” Elladan asked despite his intentions to be on best behaviour, “She is from Lothlórien.”

“She is also my subject,” Thranduil said blandly, “So I can introduce you better to Anoriel, daughter of King Amdir, Princess of Lothlórien, Queen of Greenwood and my bonded-mate. I don’t think you noticed the wedding band on her finger.”

Needless to say, Elladan murmured a few words of apology and hurried away from the unrepentant king and a disapproving Anoriel, who was chiding her husband for scaring Elladan unnecessarily.

 

“Elrond,” Erestor pulled him behind a large tree as Elrond walked slowly thorough the woods, lost in his thoughts.

“Long wait,” Elrond muttered as he glanced around to make sure they were alone and then he pressed his body to Erestor’s and brought their lips together in a demanding kiss, pouring his unsuppressed desire and passion into it. 

“Elrond…,” Erestor moaned and pulled back reluctantly, “We cannot afford it here.”

“We cannot…,” Elrond sighed unhappily, “What is it?”

“I just wanted to see you alone. Galadriel told me that Ada has sailed, he will lie down in the gardens of Lórien and pass to join the rest of our kin,” Erestor smiled faintly.

“Not him too,” Elrond whispered as he leant his head onto Erestor’s shoulder and closed his eyes. 

Slim wrists ensconced him and held him reassuringly as he pressed his face onto the warm silk-clad shoulder. Elrond sighed as a soft kiss was pressed onto the crown of his head, he pressed his lips to the projecting collarbone, pulling their bodies closer. 

Haldir of Lórien watched in shock as the two lords of Imladris walked slowly through the woods, their robes barely brushing against each other. His face turned cold in fury as he thought of Celebrían, his friend. Elrond was cheating on her.

 

“Elrond,” Thranduil laughed as they lazed about on the lake shore, “One would think that you are trying to see through him.”

“That he is trying to do,” Glorfindel smirked as he plopped down into a cross-legged position beside Elrond and Thranduil. 

Elrond was sitting with his back leant against a tree trunk and Thranduil had his head in Elrond’s lap, a position favoured by them both over many centuries. Glorfindel smiled at them indulgently before moving his gaze to the lake where the object of Elrond’s staring was swimming lazily. The Balrog-Slayer’s smile deepened. There was such a look of blissful freedom on Erestor’s chiselled features that Glorfindel was transported back in time, when their cares had been lesser and their burdens had been lighter. 

“Join me,” Erestor drawled lazily as he neatly did a back flip, “Ernil-nîn, come, would you?”

“I am quite comfortable here,” Thranduil grumbled, “Swim alone and may it do you a world of good.”

“Come out,” Elrond called mischievously, “The maidens of Lórien may peep at this delectable royal swimmer!”

“Only the maidens?” Erestor laughed as he swum towards the shore and gathered his robes to him, “We shall see, my friend.”

“Ah!” Celeborn walked towards them with a forbidding expression in his eyes, “I wanted to talk about something most important for the sake of everyone’s happiness.”

“Speak away,” Thranduil said drowsily, “If you are going to ask me to take my mother-in-law to Greenwood, you can spare the words, Celeborn. She is weirder than your wife.”

Celeborn’s eyes flashed with momentary mirth before he put on his stern countenance again, “I assure you that my concern is different and of graver importance. The four of you have no secrets from each other. I know that. So all I wanted to say was that if anyone of you hurts or aids in hurting my daughter in any way, I shall see to it that another kinslaying will occur. Be warned,” he looked coldly at Elrond, whose expression remained unreadable and Erestor, who pulled his robe closed tighter with his hands.

“Celeborn,” Glorfindel said severely, “’Bría was responsible for what happened in Imladris all those years ago.”

“Because Elrond Half-Elven was too busy sleeping with the chief-counsellor to ever perform his husbandly duties,” Celeborn spat furiously.

“If you get started on husbandly duties, Celeborn,” Elrond said through clenched teeth, “Then rest assured that I will recite your record of being the ideal husband!”

“Elrond,” Celeborn glared angrily, “I don’t care. I may be the worst of husbands, but that is no reason why my child should suffer. If the news of your liaison ever reaches her ears, I will personally kill you.”

Thranduil groaned and threw a hand over his eyes. Glorfindel looked away in disgusted anger. Elrond kept his gaze on Celeborn. 

“Celeborn,” Erestor stepped between Elrond and Celeborn, “None of us will tell ‘Bría about this. You need not worry. If she ever knows, it shall not be from any of us. You have my word on this.”

“Trusting the word of one from the house of Finwë,” Celeborn rolled his eyes exasperatedly, “It is not easy.”

“Take my word,” Thranduil laughed, “I am not anywhere related to that house, except for the fact that I have a kinsman who was stubborn and mad enough to marry a woman from the house of Finwë.”

“Well,” Celeborn sighed, “I shall take your word for this, Thranduil. Now I will leave you alone.”

“Just one more thing, Celeborn,” Elrond called after the retreating figure, “This is no liaison. I live with him, I live for him. Never tarnish that again by your ill-thought-of words.”

“Where did you learn to make such a grand speech from?” Glorfindel asked incredulously.

“Ada Maglor was a minstrel after all,” Elrond shrugged.

 

Anoriel smiled as she saw the four of them laze about the lake, a happy scene that she had not seen in years. She had come to fetch Thranduil to meet her mother, but now, she felt reluctant to end this. Biting her lips to stifle outright laughter when she saw Glorfindel chase about Erestor with mock fury on his face, Anoriel shook her head indulgently and walked away. She had to find Thalion and retrieve her son.

Galadriel was watching them amusedly when a familiar call captured her mind. The mirror, she sighed heavily and moved inexorably to the object that was the bane of her existence.

 

“What do you think?” Haldir asked Celebrían with his lips pursed in tight disapproval.

“They are certainly the best of friends,” she smiled faintly watching her husband unbraid Thranduil’s hair, “What else can make them so much at ease with each other?”

“Sleeping together,” Haldir muttered to himself before escorting her back towards the city.

 

“’Dan,” Elrohir said merrily, “Do look at them! They are worse than elflings, aren’t they?”

“I hope that Grandfather hasn’t seen this,” Elladan said nervously, “There is something terribly wrong, I am sure.”

“One of them,” Elrohir trailed away uncertainly, “We should not speculate…Come, brother.”

 

Thranduil smiled contentedly as they sat down for the parting banquet of the solstice. To his right was Anoriel, her beautiful features resplendent with the post-natal glow. Thranduil’s smile slipped away. He did find it quite sad that they could not indulge in the carnal pleasures until she was fully recovered. They had not done so since he had received the news of her pregnancy. He had been so worried and concerned about the whole thing that he did not agree to even share a bed scared of hurting her.

“What is my favourite king thinking?” she smiled meaningfully, her blue eyes sparkling in merriment.

He glanced around, to his left was Thalion. And across him sat Elrond. Deeming it safe, he took her hand in his own and placed it over the juncture between his thighs. She laughed lightly before leaning in closer to him.

“We shall re-anoint all the rooms of the castle, Ernil-nîn,” she promised in a low voice, “Never fear.”

He smiled at the prospect and began to devise imaginative schemes, oh, yes, they would take a month off from their royal duties.

“You are addicted to carnality,” Thalion muttered as he took in Thranduil’s smug expression.

“You are addicted to celibacy,” Thranduil shot back, “We compensate each other, My Lord Thalion.”

 

“Ada,” Celebrían leant towards her father after making sure that her mother’s attention was sufficiently on Erestor, “The twins, they resemble Erestor so. Will it cause trouble?”

Celeborn gulped his wine in panic before lying through his teeth, “Indeed, it is because almost everyone in your mother’s house has the same characteristics.”

“Ada,” she sighed as he took her hand and squeezed it gently in reassurance.

Celebrían turned to watch Glorfindel teaching the twins to eat the lobsters that Círdan had brought for the occasion. The patience of the Balrog Slayer with younger elves made Celebrían think of Menelwen, her friend. Glorfindel would have made an excellent father.

 

“It is an excellent tale you keep, Celeborn,” Círdan complimented the Lord of Lothlórien.

“Indeed,” Gildor raised his goblet, “The likes of which we have not seen since the king’s table in Lindon.”

“You had never appreciated the effort that I used to put in to make the king’s table the stuff of legend!” Erestor complained, raising an eyebrow at Gildor.

“Let us drink to the newest scions of Finwë,” Círdan raised his goblet, “To Elladan and Elrohir.”

As everyone at the table raised their goblets, Galadriel said quietly, “And we drink to those who are not with us, to Celebrimbor of Eregion, Ereinion Gil-Galad and Oropher of Doriath.”

Erestor and Thranduil rose to their feet and raised their goblets in silence, their eyes glittering with regrets. Elrond leant back in his chair and sighed as he thought of his fallen cousin and of Oropher. His eyes took in his two friends. Thranduil’s green eyes reminded him of Oropher of Doriath. And Erestor’s dark, fathomless gaze reminded him of…

He raised his goblet saying clearly, his eyes fixed on Galadriel, “To Macalaurë Fëanorion, High-Prince of the Noldor.”

Galadriel closed her eyes as the Sindar delegations whispered to each other disapprovingly. Celeborn’s eyes were cold. But the Noldor, as one, raised their goblets and saluted the ill-fated second son of Fëanor, Maglor. Elrond observed Erestor’s knuckles turn white as he clenched the goblet tightly.

“The house of Finwë shall rise again,” Gildor said with quiet conviction, “Whatever be the costs we shall have to pay.”

“Well said, Gildor Inglorion,” Galadriel smiled softly, “Your determination heartens me.”

“It is folly,” Galdor, who was accompanying Círdan, said quietly, “It is a cursed house. My wife went nearly insane in the end and my son has taken up sword and recklessness. And she had given up her heritage in favour of mine. But the curse of the Valar followed her to her doom. She sailed, a broken woman,” he stared accusingly at Glorfindel, who had his eyes closed in pain, “Beg the Valar for redemption, Galadriel.”

“The Valar are heartless,” Galadriel shrugged, fire burning in her eyes.

“My wife, Menelwen---,” Galdor began anew.

“She was not doomed,” Erestor leant forward, “She sailed because she felt life in Middle-Earth ill-suited. She will wait for her family in Valinor, my friend.”

“True,” Círdan intervened, “The call of the sea was in her soul.”

“I loved her, I respected her,” Galdor said sadly, “But it was never enough. Her heart still belonged to another. She tried to forget him, but the curse on your house trapped her.”

Glorfindel rose to his feet and left the table hastily, waving away Erestor’s murmured queries of worry. Círdan sighed and leant back into his chair. 

“It may be that they are cursed,” Celeborn said clearly, “But to not love them is impossible. I would fall in love with my wife all over again even if the choice is given to me.”

 

Erestor entered Círdan’s balcony, the mariner was standing at the rails stroking his beard. Erestor smiled slightly at the familiar sight from his childhood. 

“Galdor knows the truth,” Erestor sighed as he joined Círdan on the balcony. 

Círdan turned to face his foster-son. As he saw the familiar, handsome features, he reminisced of his long association to the house of Finwë. He had fostered Gil-Galad, Gildor, Menelwen and Erestor. He had taken in the scions of Finwë whenever they were hunted or ostracized. 

In his own way, he had loved Gil-Galad. He had seen the young Ereinion languish in grief and isolation as Fingon, then high-king, left him without a second glance so that he could join his beloved cousin, Maedhros. He had helped Maedhros after Fingon’s death when the eldest of Fëanorians had been almost driven to insanity from the immense losses he had suffered. Círdan had aided a newly sworn-in Gil-Galad to take on his duties. He had taken in Erestor and Menelwen when Maglor joined his brother in the nomadic life that Maedhros favoured after Fingon’s death. He had stood by Gil-Galad and Erestor throughout their long, eventful life together. He had watched them trying to hold alliances intact sacrificing their personal wishes. He had seen Erestor grieve after Gil-Galad’s death. Death seemed to dog their house. Should he really stand against whatever crumbs of happiness they had a chance of having?

“My Lord?” Erestor’s voice was concerned.

“I am proud of you,” Círdan sighed as he reached out to touch the robe-clad shoulder, “And I shall stand by you whatever you do.”

Erestor’s eyes betrayed his uncertainty as he said quietly, “You would not speak so easily if you knew what doom I have wrought upon myself.”

“I know,” Círdan said simply, “Elrond has lost much. As have you. Find your happiness together when you can. That will give you the courage to face the end.”

“Thank you, My Lord,” Erestor moved nearer as Círdan’s arms ensconced him, “I know I don’t deserve this.”

Círdan smoothed the black hair and pressed a kiss to Erestor’s forehead whispering, “I know that I have never deserved the honour of knowing as many elves of your house as I have.”

* * *

Galadriel stood beside her husband as they bid Thranduil farewell. He was leaving early with Thalion so that they could scour the paths and make the travel safe and sound for the Queen and the prince. Galadriel felt a tug at her heart as she watched the handsome form of Thranduil on the black mare drawing to the head of the column. She smiled as he bowed to her with merrily twinkling eyes.

Anoriel came forward to let her husband kiss her lips promisingly. She whispered something that made him blush slightly. Celebrían stepped forward with the young prince in her arms. Thranduil kissed his cousin’s forehead before bending down further to press his lips to his son’s soft cheek. Galadriel wondered why neither Elrond nor Erestor had turned up to see Thranduil off. Maybe they had finished their leavetakings in private.

 

Elrond wondered why Haldir was following him through the woods. He had been trying to collect herbs for his healing supplies. When he had first seen the marchwarden lean against a tree watching him insolently, he had not been concerned. But the Sylvan warrior was stalking him, and Elrond was slightly concerned. 

They had now reached a part of the woods far away from Caras Galadhon. Elrond assumed that they were somewhere near the borders. He turned to face the marchwarden, crossing his hands across his chest imperiously.

“For all that you pose, Elrond Half-Elven, you are a mere adulterer,” Haldir said quietly, “Even the least of us has not descended into your disgrace.”

“Matters that do not affect you are not your concern,” Elrond said venomously, “If it was to say this that you followed me all the way from the city, it has been a waste of your time.”

“It affects me in that it affects my dear friend ‘Bría’s happiness,” Haldir spat back angrily.

“I am sure that she knew what exactly this marriage entailed before she agreed to this,” Elrond said coldly, “If you have any grievance, please do ask your Lord and Lady. I am in no way responsible.”

“What quality does he have that ‘Bría does not?” Haldir asked furiously, “Or is it plainly lust and friendship?”

“I will not deign to answer,” Elrond replied calmly as he turned to leave, “It is none of your concern, I reiterate.”

Haldir grasped Elrond’s shoulder and pushed him up against a tree trunk violently. Elrond lost his bearings for a moment which was more than ample for the marchwarden to pin him securely against the tree holding him in place with his own body.

“Take your hands off me, Haldir,” Elrond narrowed his eyes in pure anger, “Unless you wish to be seriously harmed.”

“I don’t understand you, Half-Elven,” Haldir breathed into Elrond’s ear, “That you would reject ‘Bría is appalling. But then, you have been brought up by the Fëanorians, that shows in your dearth of good choices.”

“Speak against my fosterers again and you shall be acquainted with my sword tip,” Elrond said in a low tone, “You know nothing of love, and you will not understand me until you do.”

“Elrond?” Glorfindel’s voice was alarmed, “What is happening here?”

“We were sparring,” Elrond said lightly as he pulled away from Haldir and walked towards his friend.

 

Anoriel laughed as Erestor tried to keep his seat on the horse, wave back at Elrond and Glorfindel and hold a squirming elfling against him, all at once.

“Don’t drop him,” she scolded him, “Thranduil and I worked so hard, you know!”

“Such a perfect child,” Erestor smiled fondly, “I really cannot imagine why Lady Eleriel, your mother, would feel no happiness on seeing Laiqua.”

“I really cannot imagine how adorable Thranduil must have been in his infancy. Still his mother-kin wanted nothing to do with him,” Anoriel sighed, “They must have been really hard-hearted people.”

“Well,” Erestor said amusedly, “Think this way, if he had not been left behind, he would have married a Vanyarin princess or someone of that sort. And you would have to settle for someone like Elrond or Glorfindel!”

“I would not want that,” Anoriel laughed, “Maybe I might have considered you…”

“I was sworn to Gil by the time you came to know me,” Erestor laughed good-humouredly, “You had no chance. Unless of course, you had the daring to duel the high-king himself for me.”

“That is why Elrond hid behind that cold mask of duty, wasn’t it so?” she asked quietly, “I had always suspected. But when I saw you dancing with him on the eve of my betrothal to Thranduil, it confirmed my doubts.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, his eyes darkening in apprehension.

“A part of you loved him even through your own marriage to Gil-Galad, though you were, or at least, you tried to be unaware of that part of you which realized the truth,” she said with conviction.

“It was unintentional,” Erestor whispered, fingering the smooth cheek of the elfling he held, “I never meant to betray my vows to Gil. Eru knew, I tried to love him with all I was.”

“I must ask you to----,” she halted in sudden shock as a shadow fell upon them. 

“Archers!” Erestor called out, unsheathing his sword swiftly, “Wraiths!” 

“Wraiths?” Anoriel asked shell-shocked as half-a-dozen large cloaked forms mounted on hellish steeds descended, “But they were all destroyed years ago!” She screamed as they withdrew their swords and began killing her escort with methodical cruelty.

“Keep behind me,” Erestor shouted as the blood from one elf spurted onto her white cloak and onto her child’s pure face, “Take up your sword, steady your horse and don’t panic.”

 

Galadriel ran to her husband and gasped, “Ride after Anoriel, Celeborn, something is wrong, the mirror.”

His hatred of the mirror was outweighed by his deep concern for Anoriel, he called for Elrond and Glorfindel to assemble their riders. Galadriel tried to reach through to Anoriel’s mind, but only fear and panic reached her. She tried to reach Erestor, but encountered calm determination that locked her out entirely.

 

“Thalion!” Thranduil halted his steed and turned back to the south, “Smoke rises from that southern fastness of Lothlórien! It stands directly in the path she is travelling!”

Foreboding rose in Thalion as he watched the dark smoke rise in the south. He turned his horse about and followed Thranduil back along the paths they had come.

 

“Orcs!” an archer shouted, his face set in a grim mask.

Erestor appraised their chances. Twelve elves including Anoriel. Half of them were wounded and all of them were frightened. He had to get the queen and the prince to safety. The wraiths had not yet dared to come nearer, perhaps they were waiting for the orcs to weaken Erestor’s defence. He made his choice, flight was the only option.

“Anoriel,” he shouted as he tried to shield her from the orcs, “We must flee north.”

She was about to answer when a sharp crossbolt struck Erestor’s armour and he staggered on the horse, trying to regain his balance. She blanched in fear and tried to get to his side as he fell off the horse, clutching the prince to his chest protectively, his sword still aloft trying to fend off the orcs that surrounded him like vultures smothering a carcass. 

“Erestor!” she screamed in pure, primal fear as an orc swung its mace crushing the skull of her stallion, blood splashed onto her face and hands, making her retch in disgust. She was barely aware of being dragged down from her dying mount and being thrown to the ground. 

As she registered the hideous face of the orc that straddled her, she realized what was about to happen. Galadriel might have endured it for her loftier aims. But Anoriel knew well that she could not. 

“Elbereth forgive me,” she cried in terrible fear as she reached out through their bond to her husband. She could feel him imploring her to hold on, he was nearly there. She could dimly hear Erestor’s sword clanging against the armour of the orcs, the screams of her child and Erestor’s clear voice raised in a terrible Quenya battlecry. She knew that he would die protecting her child. They would stand a better chance at survival if Erestor did not have to worry about her. 

She closed her eyes and whispered a prayer to Mandos, the prayer of Míriel Serindë, the Broidress of the Noldor, as the orc leered at her.

Erestor chopped off the last orc’s head and faced the wraiths, the child in his left hand, and his bloodied sword in his right. In a corner of his eyes, he could see Anoriel’s white clad figure prone on the ground. During the messy skirmish he had seen an orc straddling her, but bare moments later, she seemed unhurt and the orc had instead rushed towards him with weapon drawn.

As he raised his eyes in silent entreaty to Elbereth, he heard an elven horn. The wraiths moved back into the darkness, as Thranduil Oropherion cantered into the clearing with his army. Thranduil looked almost half-dead as he jumped down from his horse, a hand on his heart. He ran towards his wife’s form, disbelief etched on his features. 

Erestor thanked Elbereth for their arrival and kissed the crying babe’s forehead gratefully. As Thranduil and Erestor moved towards the limp form of Anoriel on the grass, Elrond’s warriors reached the site.

Thranduil fell to his knees beside her and buried his face in the folds of her white cloak, his body heaving with silent sobs. Thalion and Elrond rushed with their healing supplies. 

But the king of Greenwood waved them away saying, “It is not needed, she begged Mandos to take her.” 

“Ernil-nîn,” Elrond said in a shaking voice as he felt Anoriel’s wrist for a pulse in vain, “Thranduil…”

Thranduil shook his head and rose to his feet moving towards Erestor, who had sunken to the ground, balancing him on his bloodied sword, his eyes closed in pain and guilt. 

“I failed you,” Erestor whispered as Thranduil took his son from Erestor’s grip, “I failed her.”

“You saved my son,” Thranduil shook his head, tears falling freely from his eyes onto the crying child’s face, “Her choice was hers alone. She could have chosen to endure as Galadriel did, but I will never have asked her to do that.”

“Ernil-nîn,” Erestor pulled Thranduil to him, into a rough embrace, “She panicked. I told her to flee. She did not.”

“She was untrained in war,” Thranduil said hoarsely as he clutched his son to his chest and sobbed against Erestor’s neck in bitter grief and rage.

Elrond closed the cornflower blue eyes that had once held warmth and joy, he pressed a kiss to her brow and lifted her body to a litter that Glorfindel and Celeborn had prepared hastily. He turned back to see Thranduil embracing Erestor, his head buried in Erestor’s tunic, his hands gripping his child as if the infant was his lifeline and anchor. 

 

She watched in silent horror and immeasurable grief as her husband, her bonded-mate and her one true love held the only visible proof of their short time together; their son; in his hands and rode by her corpse. The green eyes that would haunt her ever after glimmered with unshed tears. Had she made the right choice? She felt bitter guilt rise in her as Erestor rode alongside her husband, his dark eyes filled with regret and doubts. He would add this to the ‘if-only’ list of his life littered by losses. He would always be tormented by his failure to keep her alive before Thranduil arrived. The screams of her son tortured her soul.

“Come, child, it is time to leave this land,” the cold voice that she had called upon demanded.

“Yes, My Lord Namo. I am ready to travel to Mandos”

She lied, of course, she did not want to leave her husband, her son and those who had loved her. She did not want to leave. She had no choice. She could not have lived after being broken. She did not have Galadriel’s courage. 

 

Celeborn watched in helpless pain as Thranduil raised a burning torch to set his wife’s pyre alight. The Silver tree sighed, he had sworn to Oropher that he would protect Thranduil and try his utmost to ensure his happiness. Now, Thranduil was setting fire to the third corpse before them all, and Celeborn was helpless to do anything. The brilliant, emerald green eyes had faded into dull jade. 

This was how Oropher had been after Vanima had sailed, leaving behind Thranduil in his father’s arms. Now Anoriel had passed to Mandos, leaving behind young Laiqua in Thranduil’s hands. The circles of fate, Celeborn thought furiously.

Celeborn gazed on as Thranduil raised his sword in defiance to the east, the second time in his life. 

“I swear by the corpse of my Queen, by my newborn son, by all that I hold hear, that evil shall not prevail as long as I draw breath,” Thranduil cut his wrist and anointed his sword with his blood, “Let Elbereth witness my vow, my oath, my solemn promise, I shall not sail before Middle-Earth is free of this evil!”

Celeborn shook his head in disbelief and horror, Oropher would never forgive him for letting Thranduil speak these words. Thranduil had just taken an oath like the descendants of Finwë had, and Celeborn feared for him. He looked across at his wife, had she foreseen this? She did not meet his eyes, she was crooning softly to the elfling prince that she held in her arms. Elrond, who stood next to Thalion, was quietly talking to the old healer. Círdan was looking at Thranduil with immense pity and sorrow, his blue-grey eyes swirling like the disturbed sea. The twins looked frightened, one of them, Elladan, Celeborn identified, was crying silently. Celebrían stood next to them, her hand protectively placed on Elladan’s wrist.

 

“My Lord,” Haldir approached Celeborn, “Lady Eleriel has not come for her daughter’s last rites.”

“I will go to her,” Thranduil said smoothly, stepping past Celeborn and walking purposefully towards the Queen-mother’s talan.

“My Lady,” Thranduil entered without knocking. 

Eleriel was standing before a family portrait that showed Amdir, Amroth, Anoriel and herself in a happier time. Tears flowed down her sallow cheeks quietly as she placed a gaunt hand on her daughter’s face in the portrait.

“I am widowed and you are childless,” Thranduil said softly, “Come with me to Greenwood, we can raise Laiqua together for her sake.”

“I will die in Lothlórien, Lord Thranduil,” Eleriel said quietly, “But I wish I could have come with you. I am grateful that you asked. Live well, reign well and may Elbereth shine down on you and your son.”

 

“Ernil-nîn,” Erestor entered the dimly lit bedchamber. 

Thranduil sat on the window sill, his eyes fixed on the treetops. There was a detached coldness about him that frightened Erestor. Elrond had confided in him that Thranduil seemed to be on the cusp of fading. 

“I will not fade, Erestor,” Thranduil said coldly, “I will live for my son. And for revenge.”

Erestor took a deep breath and came to stand before Thranduil, he raised his hand to the cold cheek of his friend. Thranduil closed his eyes exhaustedly. 

“Why?”

The bitter, broken voice struck Erestor to his very core. He could never answer that simple question. He knelt before Thranduil and rested his head on his friend’s thigh. A hand moved through his hair threading through his scalp.

“I will keep you company this night, if you wish,” Erestor offered quietly, “Elrond is at the borders inspecting the region where…”

“I cannot betray my vows the very same night she passed into Mandos,” Thranduil laughed humourlessly, “That would be the height of infidelity.”

“I will stay with you as long as you wish,” Erestor said softly, “I will help you raise Laiqua. I will aid you in building those caves. I will take upon your most tedious duties, Thranduil. But do not fade. There is still much in the world to live for. I beg you,” he raised his head to meet Thranduil’s lifeless eyes, “Please.”

“What would I do without you?” Thranduil sighed as he pulled Erestor’s pliant body to his own and embraced him tightly, “No, my friend, send Glorfindel with me. You must return to Imladris. As this proved, life is too short even for us immortals. Spend what time you can with Elrond…I want you happy. And moreover,” he paused, “I don’t think that I can remain loyal to my vows of fidelity if I have Elrond or you underneath the same roof.”

“Ernil-nîn,” Erestor began arguing.

“No,” Thranduil pressed a dry kiss to Erestor’s lips, “I will be all right. Go back to Imladris. I will take your advice and build those caves.”

“I will come, when you call, if not before,” Erestor said quietly, “But for tonight, let us share a bed.”

“Hold me tonight then,” Thranduil said wearily, “I wish that I am walking in a nightmare that I hope to wake from. I can still remember her kissing me goodbye.”

 

“Why did you agree to the alliance when you have not even seen her?” Elrond queried curiously.

“Ada saw her,” He shrugged, “I trust his choice.”

“And love?” Elrond persisted, “If she is not your true love then?”

“She can’t be,” He shrugged again, “I prefer male company.. But I am the Crown Prince. So I have to marry and raise heirs. As you should too. With the crown comes duty, Elrond and we cannot shirk it even it seems onerous. It is not the first political marriage to happen. I suppose in that light, it is wise for her and me to at least try to like each other. We’ll be stuck together for eternity. Might as well as enjoy it….”

 

The hood was thrown back and the fair features of Amdir’s daughter emerged. Thranduil stood up elegantly and bowed saying, “Thranduil, son of Oropher, at your service, My Lady.”

The lady blushed slightly but bowed saying, “Anoriel of Lothlórien…..” 

 

She said proudly, her fingers intertwined with those of her brother’s hand, her eyes never leaving Thranduil’s, “I love your son, Lord Oropher….”

 

“One kiss now, to prove that you will never hide our love from other’s eyes,” she whispered adamantly. 

He said quietly, as he cupped her face with his hands, “I would never hide our love, come what may….”

 

 

“I may not return, Anor-nîn,” he said closing his eyes in pain, “I will not have you bind with me now. I will not wreck your life.”

“We are already bound by soul,” she whispered, “For ill or worse, I am yours and you are mine. Let us complete it.”

“True,” he opened his eyes, moist with still tears, “For ill or worse I have condemned yet one more soul to die for me…..”

 

 

He raced ahead leaving his fellow leaders and warriors far behind as he galloped towards the solitary sentinel figure. She raised her hood and pulled it back and nudged her stallion gently. They met on the plains, the soft grass swaying gently about them as they stopped five feet apart staring with wonder at each other. Tears flowed down their faces, their bodies trembled and the love that flooded their bond threatened to drive them mad. 

They held each other’s gaze in awe as their blood intermingled binding their bodies forever. Then simultaneously, they bent towards each other for a kiss. A harsh wind blew from the south, from Greenwood. But they did not worry, as long as they had each other, they would prevail…. 

 

“ANORIEL!” Thranduil rose panting, only to see Erestor sleeping exhaustedly beside him, his eyes closed in weary reverie. 

Not for the first time that day, he noticed the dark circles around Erestor’s eyes. He kissed his friend’s brow and drew the sheets to their chests before closing his eyes in tired determination. He had to live, somehow, for his son’s sake. How had his father done that?

“Ada, I wish I had your strength,” he sighed softly as Erestor pulled him closer, “All I want to do is to die…”

 

“The strange thing was, however much I grieved at losing her, as she left me with an year old elfling in my hands, I did not regret loving her…,” Oropher mussed his son’s hair lovingly.

 

Thranduil tried to concentrate on Erestor’s breathing, and tried to avoid his memories…But it was hard.

He was all alone. His mother had to abandon him, his father had died for him. His wife had to choose death. But he had a son to live for. And he could not abandon his friends, grief lay before them all.

 

Galadriel watched the shapeless malice take residence in the fortress on the southern road. This was Sauron. He had risen again. She smiled bitterly, she would keep watch on him even if the mirror drained her. South Greenwood, called Amon Lanc had become Dol Goldur, the fastness of Sauron.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

Elrohir watched their escort set up camp for the night. It was cold on the Hithaeglir. And the wind carried the sounds of the wolves eerily. He decided that spending a night on the Misty Mountains would never be a voluntary choice in his life. Sullenly, he got to his feet and walked towards the fire that Gildor had got going. 

“’Ro,” Elladan called out from the campfire, “Meat?” 

“No,” Elrohir waved, “Walk with me, brother.”

Elladan came to his side gnawing on an over-roasted haunch of meat that Gildor had given him. He thrust it before Elrohir’s face and Elrohir tore off a chunk of the meat gratefully. 

“Seen Ada Elrond or Ada Erestor?” Elladan asked curiously, looking about for their family.

“No,” Elrohir admitted, “It is so windy and cold. And all that howling on the air is creepy. Do you think they will be all right?”

“Gildor said they would be,” Elladan shrugged, “He would know, wouldn’t he? Ada Elrond usually sneaks away to get supplies for his healing stuff.”

“True,” Elrohir trailed away as a warrior came towards them and asked them to return to the periphery of the camp.

“Over protected,” Elladan muttered angrily.

“There they are,” Elrohir whispered, as he stopped walking. 

Elrond was seated on a low boulder, cleaning his sword meticulously. Erestor lay on the ground, atop his outspread cloak. They were talking softly in Quenya, their voices were drowned by the wind. 

“They are very close,” Elladan remarked as Elrond laughed at something Erestor had said and fondly prodded Erestor’s shoulder with the handle of his sword.

“Ada Erestor spent the night with Thranduil the last day in Lothlórien,” Elrohir shrugged, “It’s as Naneth said. They are all very close. That doesn’t mean anything.”

 

The years passed quickly. Elrond, Erestor and Glorfindel would take turns staying with Thranduil every year. Occasionally Celeborn or Galadriel took on this charge. Twice, Círdan came to stay in Greenwood. Somehow they made sure that Thranduil was never alone. 

The twins travelled widely with Gildor and Glorfindel. Mithrandir too would join them. Though the violence increased in the east, Elladan and Elrohir felt that their life was as good as it could ever be. Celebrían would occasionally come to Imladris and stay for a season. The twins made it their habit to stay in their grandparents’ realm for a few weeks every year. Now that they were finally been given a chance to know their mother, they were eager to spend their time with her.

They heard sordid rumours concerning the rift between Elrond and Celebrían. Speculations were rife as to the identity of Elrond Half-Elven’s legendary love, some of which were too repugnant to hear. They named everyone from Maglor to Isildur as the object of Elrond’s unrequited love. The twins had long stopped listening to these rumours. But all the same, they wondered.

It was shortly after a visit to Lindon that Elladan and Elrohir walked to the familiar study of their home.

As they opened the door, they looked on a scene of utter domesticity that they had seen countless times. Elrond was seated on the desk, reading indolently through a scroll. His eyes were fixed amusedly on Erestor, who sat in a chair, his head held up by a slender wrist, his quill raised thoughtfully to his chin. Elrohir met Elladan’s eyes uncertainly, there were many things about Elrond and Erestor that caused them suspicion, but they had never obtained a solid proof. 

“Welcome back,” Elrond smiled as he saw them, “Do come in, and tell us about your visit to Lindon.”

Erestor rested his quill on the parchment and blew the ink dry before greeting them with a soft smile, his dark eyes checking their forms for injuries or ills. 

“Glorfindel is in Greenwood?” Elladan asked as he poured himself a generous measure of the Dorwinion that followed Erestor into every room.

“Yes,” Erestor replied as he took away the bottle hastily from Elladan, “And your mother will join him on the return journey.”

“How is Laiqua?” Elrohir asked with great interest, he had always had a soft corner for the motherless prince of Greenwood.

Elrond smiled, “He is well, Thranduil spoils him so.”

“The nobles of Lindon said that we are spoilt-to-the-hilt half-elves,” Elrohir countered, “Of course, we were quick to blame you two.”

“Rather predictable,” Erestor laughed as he reached across the table to sweep Elladan’s hair out of his eyes, “Now hurry on and take a bath before dinner unless you want Lindir to complain.”

“Why did you leave Lindon?” Elladan asked curiously, “It is a wonderful city.”

“The valley is closer to our allies than Lindon is,” Elrond said lightly as he shooed them out with mock sternness.

“They are always together,” Elladan remarked as the door closed behind Elrond.

“We can ask Naneth the next time she comes to Imladris, she would know,” Elrohir whispered.

 

“I don’t think so,” Celebrían laughed as she walked in between her taller sons, “They have always been together even during the days before the last alliance. It was imperative in their positions as chief-counsellor and herald that they spend time together. I suppose they are used to each other by now.”

“But, Naneth,” Elrohir interjected, “They are startled whenever we sneak up on them.”

“See here, ion-nîn,” Celebrían smiled, “Elrond has always been overprotective of Erestor. Maybe it is because that he is reminded of Maglor whenever he sees Erestor. Or because of his inherent loyalty to the house of Fëanor.”

“Precisely,” Elladan said with conviction, “Whom else does he respect and love so much?”

Celebrían opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. Elrond and Erestor walked towards them, oblivious to their surroundings. They were discussing something earnestly as they walked. Celebrían and the twins stopped walking as Erestor shook his head at something Elrond had said and gesticulated forcefully. Elrond laughed and caught Erestor’s fingers before squeezing them softly. This was a gesture of tenderness that Celebrían had never received from her husband. She had never been the recipient of his adoring, affectionate glance that he was bestowing on Erestor now.

“’Bría,” Erestor smiled as he saw them, “A nice day for an evening walk?”

“Indeed it is,” Celebrían laughed, “Would you two join us? We are going to watch the sunset.”

“No,” Elrond cut in before Erestor could reply, “We have work, rather pressing matters. I hope that you will sit to my right at dinner as always.”

 

Elladan woke his brother quietly, “Ada Erestor has left the study. Ada Elrond is still inside the library though.”

“Should we follow this through?” Elrohir asked uncertainly, “It is none of our business at all.”

“But if they had been doing this before Naneth’s marriage,” Elladan sighed, “She deserves the truth, ‘Ro. She was so sad for years. And I cannot bear it if they had not cared for her the tiniest whit.”

“Come then,” Elrohir said quietly.

They made their way to the river and concealed themselves in the spot they had marked out earlier that eve. Erestor was swimming in the river, singing softly to himself, his eyes on the starlit skies. 

They heard a rustle of clothes and followed a moment later by Elrond’s light steps. 

“Join me?” Erestor asked companionably.

“It is cold,” Elrond whined as he sat down on his favourite boulder and waited for Erestor to finish, “Did you see the twins spar today? They were incredible. Glorfindel will be so proud of his pupils.”

Elladan suppressed a sigh, they were talking of his brother and himself. They took pride in the twins’ achievements, and stood by them always. And Elrohir and he were spying on their personal lives? He met his brother’s knowing eyes. He nodded in assent and they moved away silently. It was no concern of theirs.

 

“Celebrían,” Elrond remarked as she sat down to his left, “Take the seat to my right, my dear.”

Elladan was drawn to this exchange as a moth to a candle. His mother was clad in a shimmering silver gown that became her well. She looked younger and more beautiful than usual. Elrond was clad in deep violet robes of soft velvet that emphasized his austere features and noble bearing. Elladan knew that they looked as magnificent a couple as did Celeborn and Galadriel. Only the love was missing. And that seemed to make all the difference.

“Erestor is not coming?” Celebrían asked as she leant back in her chair. 

“He will,” Elrond shrugged, “Some last moment missive we had from Erebor. Thranduil forgot to dispatch it with the regular courier.”

Elrohir dropped into the seat to Celebrían’s right. All the seats at the table except for the one between Elrond and Elladan were filled. The minstrels started playing softly as the dinner began. They were celebrating the anniversary of the farcical marriage between Elrond and Celebrían.

Elladan looked up as Erestor entered, clad in deep blue robes that had a fine line of mithril inlaid along the hems. His hair was held back by a simple clasp highlighting his sharp profile. As always, Elladan wondered at the simple elegance that defined Erestor.

Erestor smiled at the diners and moved to Celebrían’s side murmuring, “Will you not take the other seat, My Lady?”

“No,” Celebrían shook her head as she patted Elrohir’s hand, “I am rather engrossed in my son’s story telling here.”

Erestor smiled politely and made his way to Elrond’s other side. Elladan pulled back the chair for him. 

As Elladan turned to his wine again, he heard Elrond whisper in Quenya, “You look stunning tonight.”

Elladan almost choked on his wine as he saw colour rise in Erestor’s cheeks before whispering back, “Círdan sent me a few robes from the Havens. He seems rather inclined to spoil me these days.”

Of course, Elladan thought wryly, it was their habit to talk in Quenya when the twins were around. They assumed that the twins did not understand the ancient language. Elladan did not like Quenya. But he had learnt it determinedly, just to understand what the two elder elves spoke of. He had never heard even one compromising word though in all the years he had eavesdropped on them.

“I would like to grace the Lord Chief-Counsellor with a song that might convey our sympathy for his long bereavement,” Haldir, who had come from Lothlórien to visit Celebrían, said clearly,

Elrond looked momentarily bewildered at the marchwarden’s words. Erestor had closed his eyes and leant back in his chair.

The haunting lyrics of the song that Elladan had heard of only in history pervaded the hall in Haldir’s rich voice.

"Gil-galad was an Elven-king.  
Of him the harpers sadly sing:  
the last whose realm was fair and free  
between the Mountains and the Sea.”  
"His sword was long, his lance was keen,   
his shining helm afar was seen;   
the countless stars of heaven's field   
were mirrored in his silver shield."  
"But long ago he rode away,   
and where he dwelleth none can say;   
for into darkness fell his star   
in Mordor where the shadows are.”

Haldir signed off with a flourishing remark, “Of course, you must have forgotten him, Lord Erestor. Seeing that you were in Lord Half-Elven’s bed scarce moments after he died.”

“Elbereth!” Celebrían whispered even as chaos erupted in the hall with the residents of Imladris trying to shout down Haldir.

She did not have to ask if Haldir’s words were true. Her friend had never lied so far in his long life. Erestor’s ashen face confirmed that accusation. The long fingers were shaking as Erestor tried to sip his wine to get a hold on himself.

“We can explain,” Elrond said calmly as he tried to place a hand on Celebrían’s wrist.

“I do think that you are rather late in offering an explanation,” Celebrían shook her head faintly as she rose to her feet, “I must leave.”

“Naneth,” Elrohir rose and followed her anxiously, his face lit with concern for her.

“Is it true?” Melpomaen, who had sat next to Elrohir, asked frightened, “Lord Erestor? It is the doom of Finwë that shall be revoked on your house again!”

“Dinner is over,” Elladan stood up and motioned the stunned servants to clear away the banquet, “My friends,” he addressed the shocked gathering who were still staring at Erestor and Elrond, “We are more acquainted with the lords of Imladris than Haldir of Lothlórien. And I am sure that none of us have seen such a situation as Haldir has hinted. My parents have been happily married and today we celebrate the anniversary of their wedding. Lord Erestor is still in mourning for High-King Ereinion Gil-Galad.”

As the crowd dispelled, Elrond looked up at Elladan and said quietly, “Thank you.”

“You could have told Naneth,” Elladan said in a low voice before walking away, leaving them alone in the large room. He turned once at the doors, they were talking softly, their gazes earnest and sincere. Elladan berated himself for being thrice a fool, how had he not noticed?

 

“Elladan, Elrohir,” Erestor’s voice was slightly tensed, “May I come in?”

“Come in, Ada,” Elladan sighed, “Elrohir is with Naneth.”

He watched silently as Erestor entered. The tall figure was slightly hunched in anxiety and regret, Elladan had never before seen Erestor suffer from such a lack of composure. He sighed and pulled his father to the bed into a sitting position.

Kneeling before Erestor and placing his palms on Erestor’s knees, Elladan said quietly, “If it helps ease your pain, I would tell you that I knew. Elrohir and I have always known it. We did not tell her either.”

“You knew…,” Erestor breathed as his tortured black eyes sought out Elladan’s grey ones, “Tell me that is not true, ion-nîn, please. I cannot bear it. That you knew all these years…”

“It is all right, Ada,” Elladan said hesitantly, wondering why Erestor was so upset. 

It was not the first time that a married elf had strayed. Celeborn was the black sheep of their family in this regard. Unless, Elladan took in a sharp breath, Melpomaen’s words struck him now. The doom of Finwë shall be revoked again.

“You love him, don’t you?” Elladan asked frightened.

Everything made sense now. The long unrequited love, the desperate bonding, the deep spiritual relationship, Elrond’s over protectiveness, Celeborn’s anger, Galadriel’s interference, Glorfindel’s wariness, Celebrían’s desperation, Haldir’s cruelty, Círdan’s sorrow, Lindir’s fear, all those that he had always observed, but never understood became suddenly clear as daylight to him. 

Erestor clutched Elladan’s hands imploringly and whispered, “If you ask us to, Elrond and I are ready to end this.”

“Where is he?” Elladan asked quietly.

“In his chambers, I daresay,” Erestor replied confusedly, “Why do you ask?”

“It is as well that he is not anywhere near to have heard your words,” Elladan shook his head, “Ada, you cannot just like that end this because you fear Elrohir’s or my disapproval. Anywhere I go, I hear of Elrond Peredhel’s long, abiding, unrequited love. He did not let Gil-Galad or Galadriel or even the fear of the Valar stand in his path, Ada. Do you honestly think that he will let Elrohir or I end this?” 

“Are you saying that…?” Erestor halted fearfully.

“Ada, I want you both to be happy,” Elladan breathed deeply, “While you can. Melpomaen’s words have frightened me though. It is true, isn’t it? The two of you have brought the curse upon our family again.”

“I..,” Erestor shook his head disbelievingly.

“We will take Naneth to Lothlórien tomorrow,” Elladan smiled bitterly, “Ada, I do not hold you or Ada Elrond culprits for following your hearts. You taught me better than that.” 

 

Thranduil pressed his knuckles to his eyes and rubbed wearily. He had finally completed the day’s audience. Now he had to inspect the barracks, pay a visit to the healing halls, glance through the trade agreements, write those reports that he had been putting off for days….

“May the last subject for today come in?” a child’s melodious voice soothed him.

“Come in, my leafling,” Thranduil got to his feet as his son bounded in, Thalion following close behind with an indulgent expression on his aged face. 

Laiqua ran to his father and clutched Thranduil’s robes, wrapping his small arms around his legs possessively. Thranduil smiled despite his burdens and lifted his son into his arms.

“And what have you been up to today?” Thranduil asked his son, affectionately ruffling the silky hair, Anoriel’s hair. 

“Gildor took me to the barracks, he taught me to condition a bow,” Laiqua said excitedly, “And he gave me something very tasty to drink! Forgot the name. Though I had a headache after that, I still have it…,” he trailed off as his father glared at Thalion.

“Was it by any chance called the Dorwinion?” Thranduil glowered at his healer.

Thalion shrugged unaffectedly, “I am in no way responsible for this. You insisted on appointing Noldorin caretakers for young Laiqua. You should have known what they are capable of. Now, you will eat what I have had sent to your rooms and sleep awhile. I will wake you if need be, young lord. Leave, now. The child refuses to sleep alone.”

“Leafling,” Thranduil sighed, “I have work to do.”

“That is what you always say,” Liquid green eyes stared up imploringly at Thranduil, melting his heart, “Please, Ada, please!”

“All right,” Thranduil nodded and pressed a kiss to his son’s cheek, “Come, let us go to bed, then.”

Thranduil was half way to his son’s bedchamber when he recalled that he had forgotten his signet ring on the desk. 

Sighing, he set his son down and whispered, “Run along, leafling, I will be back in a moment.”

Laiqua nodded his head vigorously and disappeared down the corridors. Thranduil watched him with a smile on his lips before turning back.

He opened the door to his audience chamber quietly. It was hard, each room and corridor held memories of the time he had spent with her. Those memories haunted him every moment of his life. He was about to enter the room, fetch his ring and hurry back to his son when he saw a tall figure before his father’s portrait. 

Thalion reached out the fingers of his right hand and touched Oropher’s portrait whispering, “Why does fate move in circles? It breaks my heart to see him like this knowing that nothing I do will cease his suffering.”

Thranduil stayed still as Thalion caressed the face in the portrait wistfully before pressing his forehead to the frame. Tremors wracked the robe-clad body of the healer making Thranduil will himself to move into the room.

His footsteps made Thalion turn abruptly. 

“Prince,” Thalion whispered wildly looking about, “What are you…?”

“Thalion,” Thranduil smiled sadly, “You hid it well, fooled all of us, didn’t you, my healer?”

“I never meant to,” Thalion said hoarsely.

Thranduil shook his head and closed the distance between them with a loose embrace saying, “I am sorry that I never saw this. I don’t condemn you. None of us rule our hearts. You are my friend, my counsellor, my teacher, my foster-father. And you shall always have my love and respect for that.”

Thalion kissed Thranduil’s cheek whispering, “Go to your son, he will worry.”

Thranduil disengaged himself from the embrace and met those sad, yet, resigned blue eyes.

“Thank you,” Thalion smiled wanly before leaving the room.

 

“Ada,” Laiqua commanded, “Tell me a story.”

“What story would my leafling like?” Thranduil laughed as he pulled his child to him, “Maybe I will tell you of how Elu Thingol and Melian, your ancestors, met and fell in love.”

“Do you know only love stories?” the elfling complained, “I want a story about orcs, wicked men and sorcerers!”

“Bloodthirsty orcling,” Thranduil lightly pinched his son’s cheek eliciting a squeal, “I think you have been spending too much time with the Noldor. Thalion is right.”

“Tell me about the time when Elrond and you were captured by those men and you killed them all just like this,” Laiqua snapped his fingers excitedly, “Glorfindel told me that there were nearly a hundred men and you shrank them to the size of dwarves with your magic!” 

“That does it,” Thranduil muttered, “You are henceforth to avoid the Noldor lest they wreak havoc on your morals!” 

“Erestor tells good stories,” Laiqua said sleepily, “And Glorfindel catches fish well. I love them.”

“Certainly I must brush up on my story telling and fishing skills lest you altogether throw me out of your affections,” Thranduil laughed.

“That will never happen, Ada,” the child’s voice was strong and clear, “I will always be your leafling. Yours alone.”

Thranduil sighed and said softly, “Go to sleep, my star.”

* * *

“Elrond,” Erestor entered through the door interconnecting their chambers, “Elrohir is still with ‘Bría.”

“I don’t understand why I am not worthy of having a lover when Haldir and ‘Bría flaunt their relationship to anyone and everyone,” Elrond complained indignantly as he walked to his companion’s side.

“You know very well that both of them are as of yet free to take a lover,” Erestor sighed, “They are not bonded.”

“I hate that word,” Elrond rested his head against the smooth pillar of the bedpost, “I will talk to Elrohir and Celebrían in the morning. Come to bed, it is late.”

“I think it will be better if we let Elladan speak to Elrohir. Maybe you and I can speak with ‘Bría,” Erestor let Elrond unclasp the front of his robes.

“Hmmm..,” Elrond eased back the now open robes so that they pooled down at Erestor’s feet, “I insist on doing the conversation with ‘Bría alone. I don’t want her to stare at you before my eyes.”

“Elrond!” Erestor exclaimed partly from exasperation at his words and partly from the cunning fingers moving down his sides.

“Shh…,” Elrond warned before engaging Erestor’s lips for a kiss, moulding himself into the pliant body, he sighed as strong, yet deceptively slender arms pulled him closer. Fingers tore away at the buttons of his tunic unmercifully. He smiled triumphantly. It was really amazing how he could make the impeccable chief-counsellor lose control so completely by a mere kiss. The fire contained within Erestor burst to the fore on such occasions and they would both burn in it. Somehow they toppled backwards onto the bed.

 

Erestor woke at dawn and rose from the bed quietly. Elrond was still asleep exhaustedly. Erestor settled for a chaste kiss to Elrond’s tangled hair and got to his feet. He had to talk to Elrohir before Elrond did. Hastily, he walked to his own chambers and bathed with the lukewarm water that he had had sent to his rooms the previous night. 

As he tried to comb his hair into a semblance of dignity, the door opened and Celebrían walked in, her jaw set in resolute grimness.

“A good morning to you,” Erestor smiled at her reflection in the mirror before him.

“I trust that my husband is still not up after your vigorous activities of yesternite,” she said coldly as she halted a few inches away behind him.

“’Bría,” Erestor said in a placating voice, raising his comb in a gesture of truce. 

“Don’t you dare!” she said bitterly, “You pretended all these centuries. You knew from the very beginning, from the first time that this cursed marriage was discussed. Everyone except me knew! And I was pawned away to be a public façade to your damned adultery. I would not have been pained, at least not this much, if you had told me the truth,” Erestor set down his comb and half-rose from his seat, “Nobody told me, not even when I came here. You were sleeping with him each night and putting on the oh-so-helpful-to-the-lady of the house-face come dawn! How could you?”

“You have no reason to trust me,” Erestor said earnestly, “But believe me when I say that we were not together until you left Imladris that winter morning and he returned to find me nearly insane. It was only after we received your father’s letter telling us that you were pregnant.”

“I made a mistake!” Celebrían said furiously, “A lapse in decision and judgement. You, Elrond and you were deliberately planning each of your moves! And what is worse, all of your friends and family stood by you while I was foolishly trying to take on my assigned role!”

“’Bría,” Erestor glanced at the slightly ajar door to Elrond’s chambers worriedly, “I swear by all that I hold dear that neither Elrond nor I have ever deliberately involved you in this mess.”

“I understand,” she said quietly, “Now I understand why he was noble enough to introduce the children as his own. And why he forgave me when any normal husband would have hated me. And why he refused to even hear of making a heir with me. Tell me, Lord Erestor, were you doing this even all through the marriage to the high-king? Spending the nights in Gil-Galad’s bed and the days in Elrond’s bed?”

“Elbereth!” Erestor exclaimed turning pale, clenching his hands together in a gesture of supplication, “Please, ‘Bría! For the friendship, that was there between us…”

“I can’t,” she whispered, “Isildur was right, you were just a bedwarmer.”

Her words seemed to break something in him; his knuckles were bone white as he clutched at the dresser behind him to steady himself. Celebrían shuddered at the primal expression in his dark eyes. Then fire that flashed in his eyes reminded her of the tales of Fëanor in battle and rage. But she stood her ground, in her too was the blood of Finwë, though it was not as potent as it seemed to be in his veins.

“Leave,” he said after a long moment, the intensity of his gaze made her avert her eyes, “Unless you have something more to add, I think this conversation is as good as ended.”

 

Thranduil was satisfied with the caves. Most of the Sindar had moved in underground, being reminded happily of Doriath. The Sylvan subjects still lived in settlements around the great fortress of Greenwood. Erestor had sent plans for new fortifications, watchtowers and fortresses that Thranduil was now constructing. 

“Ada!” 

Thranduil turned about on his horse. Laiqua, who had insisted on accompanying him on this trip to the caves, was cantering madly to catch up with him. Thranduil smiled at the sight his son made. The flaxen braids that Thranduil had put in with so much effort in the morning were all in disarray. The pale blue robes that the dwarven delegation had gifted were torn by thistles and thorns. The golden face was flushed with excitement and exercise. Laiqua was a sight that could lighten even the sorest of eyes. Dwarves, elves, men, wizards, all fell under the spell of his beautiful innocence. The prince had inherited Thranduil’s looks, Oropher’s kindness and Anoriel’s calmness, a lethal mix.

“Ride slower,” Thranduil chastised his son as Laiqua finally caught up and fell in line alongside the king, “You will scare the pony.”

“He loves this,” Laiqua shrugged confidently, “I asked him.”

Thranduil smiled indulgently, Celeborn and Thalion had taught the young elf to speak with other living creatures last winter and since then the prince had been obsessed in talking with animals.

“Ada…,” Laiqua trailed off.

“Yes, leafling?” Thranduil asked quietly, making sure that his archers covered their path. He no longer took the least of risks.

“When will I be of age?” Laiqua asked hesitantly.

“It will be long before you are of age,” Thranduil answered concernedly, “Why, leafling, suddenly enquiring about your majority? All eager to leave me?”

“No,” Laiqua sighed, he brought their mounts closer and slid off his pony into his father’s arms. As he settled himself comfortably before Thranduil and leant back against his father’s chest, he continued morosely, “I don’t want my majority, ever! I want to be your leafling always.”

“And that you shall be,” Thranduil brought a hand to tousle his son’s already dishevelled hair, “Whom else do I live for?”

“Ada,” Laiqua snuggled closer sleepily, “Will you sing for me?”

“Ah, Laiqua,” Thranduil said in a mock stern voice, “Such requests are only to be made within our chambers. The king of Greenwood cannot sing while he is inspecting his borders, can he now?”

“ADA!” Laiqua ordered even as the elves on their escort began laughing at the scene.   
Thranduil decided that the Valar must be punishing him for having been such a nuisance to his own father. He cleared his throat and began to sing softly one of his son’s favourites in his melodious voice.

 

“When Anor sets in the west and Ithil rises in the skies,  
Then, merry elves, we shall walk under our Lady’s stars,  
Bring your harp, bring your lute, bring your songs,  
Bring your lord’s best wines, let us rejoice.”

The prince’s clear, young voice joined the king’s sonorous tones. 

“Come, my friends, let us sing, dance and make merry,  
Bring not your worries, leave behind your fears,  
Under the Lady’s stars, we shall sing to her,  
This night is for life, for songs and for joy…”

 

The escort laughed and the trees parted way for them gladly. There was joy in the woods of Greenwood again. 

 

“ADA!” Elladan rushed to Elrond’s chambers at the crack of dawn. He tried to open the door only to find it securely locked. Cursing, he entered Erestor’s chambers which were as usual left unlocked. He tried the side door, it was locked. He cursed again and banged on it impatiently.

He stepped back involuntarily as Elrond opened the door with a stern expression on his face.

“Yes, ion-nîn?” Elrond asked not so good-humouredly, as he fastened the ties on his velvet green robes,“Some of us are trying to sleep, you know.”

“Naneth has ridden out for Lothlórien,” Elladan blurted out in desperate panic, “Elrohir has gone with her. He left me a letter saying that they have taken twenty as escort.”

“Twenty!” Erestor appeared behind Elrond, clad in a simple grey robe, “That is folly,” he took a deep breath and continued before Elrond could vent his anger, “I will go and send the patrol out. Elladan, you get armoured and come to the barracks. Ride with the patrol and fetch your brother and mother home. We cannot let them risk the passes with so few a number. On second thoughts,” Erestor paused, “I will have Lindir wake Haldir. He is the most experienced leader amongst the warriors under the roof now.”

Elrond said angrily as he followed Erestor out of the chambers, “Elrohir should have had more sense than that!”

Elladan ran after them explaining, “He told me that he did not condone your relationship. He was very unreasonable yesterday night. I should have known that he would do something like this,” he wrung his hands in fear.

“Ion-nîn,” Elrond gentled his voice, “Get into armour and come to the barracks. We will bring them back or at least persuade them to take a larger escort if they will not return to this valley of vices.”

“Elrond,” Erestor chastised half-amusedly as Elladan laughed at the expression, “Valley of vices indeed!”

“Well,” Elrond stepped into his riding boots, “Do me a favour and let me take on the next year to Greenwood. I need to stay away from her.”

“Ada,” Elladan whispered to Erestor as Elrond hurried away to the stables, “I think you should come instead of Ada Elrond...he might quarrel there.”

“No,” Erestor said reassuringly as he helped Elladan into armour, “He is a better tracker than I am, Elladan, and he is a healer.”

“There is something else, isn’t there?” Elladan asked quietly, “You have never led out a patrol since Lady Anoriel died.”

“True,” Erestor smiled humourlessly, “It was not the first time that I felt I failed as a warrior, but it will definitely be the last time.”

“You saved Laiqua,” Elladan reminded him, “If you hadn’t, Thranduil might have succumbed to fading and grief himself. Don’t doubt yourself, Ada.”

“I will be all right,” Erestor said lightly, “Now go and fetch your brother quickly. And stay safe.”

 

“Galadriel,” Celeborn rushed into the chamber, she was seated at the desk writing her journal, “The damned mirror is calling me.”

“Go then,” she smiled encouragingly, “You know it gets worse if you resist it.”

“It didn’t call you?” he asked plaintively. 

Despite his nervousness, he glanced curiously at the pages of the red-velvet covered tome that she wrote in. It had been a gift from Maedhros on her coming of age. That was all that he knew of it. She carried it everywhere and let nobody come within an inch of it. He wondered what she would have written of their marriage. Of Celebrían. 

“No,” she closed her journal and rose to her feet, “Come, we shall go together. It is not wise to ignore the call.”

He trustingly accepted her lead and followed her, nervous tension betrayed in each of his steps.

 

“Mithrandir!” Erestor waited on the courtyard of the mansion, a warm welcoming smile on his features.

“My friend,” Mithrandir laughed as he doffed his pointed, large-brimmed hat in a gesture of mock subservience, “I find you as handsome as ever while I have turned wearier and aged with my travelling!”

“Come in then,” Erestor let himself be gathered into the wizard’s arms for a warm, bear hug, “You try to break my ribs at every available opportunity, don’t you?”

“Well, it gives me a reason to visit you,” Mithrandir said wisely, “Now where is that scowling half-elf and the resident Balrog Slayer?”

“Glor is in Greenwood,” Erestor replied, “And Elrond and the twins have ridden to escort Celebrían to Lothlórien.”

“Ah,” Mithrandir looked sharply at Erestor, “And what are you not telling me? Don’t,” he advised as Erestor began to deny anything, “The place looks like a graveyard. Lindir looks like an elf expecting doom. And Melpomaen refused to answer my questions. Out with it.”

“Haldir made public the sordid truth of our private life, the changes in the valley can be traced to his revelations. And Celebrían rode out in anger, Elrohir with her. Elrond and Elladan have ridden after them,” Erestor looked pensively at the mountains that ensconced the valley, “I hope for their return this eve.”

“What will you do?” Mithrandir asked gravely, “Step away from the relationship? Celeborn is not an elf you would want to offend.”

“I will fight for our love, if Elrond wants me to. And I believe that he will never give up on this,” Erestor smiled bitterly, “We have already defied the laws of the Valar and the laws of the Eldar. What have we left to fear from Celeborn?” 

“That is exactly the attitude I have grown to expect from one of your house,” Mithrandir sighed as he warmed himself by the fire, “It will never change, will it?”

 

“ELLADAN!” Elrond yelled as the younger elf bounded across the snowy slopes shouting for his brother.

“Elrond,” Haldir came to his side with an expression of utmost worry on his fair features, “The tracks lead to Moria.”

“Moria?” Elrond whispered fearfully, this was his worst nightmare come true. The escort had been found slain. There was no sign of Elrohir or Celebrían.

“Haldir,” Elrond said as calmly as he could be, “Send word to Celeborn. And to the valley. We will need more search parties here.”

 

“My Lord,” the young daughter of one of his counsellors approached him shyly, “Would you honour me with a dance?”

“Certainly,” Thranduil smiled charmingly, “It would be my greatest pleasure to dance with so beautiful a maid.”

The girl blushed and shyly followed Thranduil to the dance floor, Laiqua laughed at his father’s charm and then turned to Thalion.

“Your father is a born pest,” Thalion said wryly, “People cannot keep their hands or eyes off him.”

“Well,” Laiqua laughed as he stole a drink from Thranduil’s abandoned wine goblet, “At least it gives me a chance to polish off his Dorwinion. Why does he make me stay away from this wine?”

“Let us just say that after Lord Erestor overindulged in the Dorwinion, all of us are wary,” Thalion smiled meaningfully. 

“Laiqua,” Thranduil joined them, “Come and dance with me, son. You must learn the art, you know, you are a prince of our people after all.”

“Who taught you, Ada?” Laiqua rose to his feet gracefully and walked to his father’s side, “Not Thalion?”

“It was your grandfather,” Thranduil smiled and gently guided his son through the moves, “He was a saint for putting up with me.”

 

“Ada,” Laiqua muttered as they retired for the night, “Do you feel lonely at nights?”

“With you tossing and snatching the covers? I daresay, no,” Thranduil laughed as he walked over to the bathing chamber.

“No, when I leave on patrols or something,” Laiqua followed him wringing his robes nervously, “I mean, I am old enough to know that you might want to take a lover.”

Thranduil emerged from the tub spitting out water in incredulity, “Has Thalion or Gildor been spouting nonsense into your ears?”

“Ada,” Laiqua sighed, “I am serious.”

“That is folly, leafling,” Thranduil laughed, “I loved your mother. What I had once with her is more than enough to warm my thoughts on lonely nights.”

But after they retired, Thranduil stayed awake a long time wondering if he could sustain himself on mere memory. He craved for a soothing touch of a lover. Today when he had danced with the maidens, he had felt that inexorable desire rise in him. Sighing, he kept watch on the moonwashed figure of his sleeping son. It was worth everything, he mused silently as he pressed a kiss to the flaxen hair.

 

Erestor watched in apprehension as the scout rode into the yard. There were no telltale sounds of the horse hooves that would herald a larger party.

“My Lord!” Lindir rushed to the balcony where Erestor was keeping vigil that night, “They need more warriors.”

“I am leaving with the next patrol,” Erestor said curtly, “Have the healing halls ready, mellon-nîn.”

* * *

He tried to drown out the persistent howling of the winds and concentrated on the faint snowed-upon tracks. He had to find them. His mother, he had been without her for so long that he did not ever want to lose her presence in his life again. His twin, his closest confidant, he could not lose Elrohir ever. He had to find them.

He had turned away from the main patrol not listening to Elrond calling him back. Elrond would understand his son’s fear, having lost so much himself. The wind howled again, but this time it was not merely nature. The hungry howls of the dreaded wolves of the mountains fell upon the air. He shuddered, he had always hated the Hithaeglir with its inhospitable terrain and beset passes. 

He could see nothing clearly, the snow fell heavily upon the paths. He had removed his armour to increase his freedom of movements. He was chilled to the bone, his muscles numb and his body refusing to move. 

 

“What do you mean?” Erestor asked Haldir incredulously, “You let him run away all alone and unequipped for the cold?”

“Lord Elrond was there too,” Haldir said bitingly, “Perhaps you should ask these questions to him.”

There was an uneasy silence as Elrond moved his horse away from Erestor and Haldir who were engaged in a glaring match. He had tried to go after Elladan. But he could not leave his warriors leaderless. And he had truly not expected the young elf to disappear without a trace in bare moments.

“Well?” Haldir smirked, “Have I struck a chord somewhere? The famed chief-counsellor of the Noldor speechless?”

Elrond clenched his fists in his mare’s mane. He knew that Erestor was trying desperately not to ask him directly. If Haldir had not been there, Elrond knew that he would have had to endure a severe tongue-lashing. 

“Marchwarden,” Erestor kept his voice calm and measured, “I would be pleased if you direct your warriors to the western path while Elrond makes a sweep of the eastern passes.”

Haldir opened his mouth to protest at this flagrant flouting of authority, “Who do you think you are to order me about? I answer only to Lord Celeborn.”

“Since we are trying to find his daughter, I assume he would not mind. Even if he does, I will take it upon myself. While we are on these Valar-forsaken mountains, you should do better to take my instructions,” Erestor said coldly, for a moment looking rather like how Elrond remembered Maedhros; proud, determined and confident.

 

Galadriel smiled unconvincingly as her husband and Glorfindel rode west with their warriors. Sighing, she mounted her mare and turned east towards Greenwood. Celeborn had all but forgotten of their mutual understanding that Thranduil was not to be left alone. It was his turn to visit Greenwood and he had forgotten completely. She did not blame him, the missives from Imladris had been vague and urgent. Adding to that, the mirror had shown them the snowy peaks of the misty mountains over and over again. 

“Hail, My Lady,” the escort Thranduil had sent to the borders greeted her. 

She smiled, the Sylvan families that had settled in Greenwood after the death of Amdir were flourishing. Each time, she would see a definite increase in number of the accented Sindarin speakers.

They moved swiftly underneath the eaves of the forest. She could feel the warmth of Thranduil’s powerful mind welcoming her. She relaxed, she knew quite well that nothing could harm her now, in northern Greenwood. There was talk of spiders, orcs and wild men in the eastern and southern paths of Greenwood. Thranduil had decided to hold the Old Forest paths, the traders’ roads and the vantage towers in the central forest while abandoning the southern fastness where Sauron now resided. Sauron, on his part, seemed dormant as he waited for the alliances to falter. He did not dare to make a bolder move with Thranduil to his north, the might of Gondor to his south and Galadriel to his west. 

Her deep thoughts were thrown awry when her mare whinnied and rose on its forelegs, effectively unseating her. She managed to swerve and fell with a thud upon the soft grass. The warriors who escorted her were shaking their heads with wry amusement. 

“I am so sorry!” a clear, young voice said in sincere apology, “Oh! Lady Galadriel, are you hurt? We were expecting Lord Celeborn!” a pair of slender arms helped her to her feet and she found herself staring into the sparkling green eyes of the prince of Greenwood.

“ Prince Laiqua,” she smiled as she rubbed her bruised elbows, “I do hope that you exercise more caution when you startle my mare again. She has run off.”

“I will bring her back,” Laiqua said earnestly, “I did not think that I would frighten her when I tried to talk with her.”

She waved off his apology and mounted the mare that he led up to her. Well, she thought dryly as they rode towards Thranduil’s fortress, she was truly back in Greenwood.

They reached the fortress at dusk and she was glad of Laiqua’s help while dismounting, her fall had left her sore and bruised. 

“Welcome back,” Thranduil smiled lightly as he descended the steps to greet her. 

Laiqua ran towards him and pressed his lips to his father’s signet ring before standing beside him. Galadriel smiled at the picture they made, the father and the son. 

Laiqua was as tall as Galadriel, but a few inches shorter than his father. His green eyes were a shade lighter than Thranduil’s deep green ones. His frame was more like Oropher’s, spare and austere unlike Thranduil’s magnificence. But that was where the differences ended. Their eyes held the same fearlessness and determination though Laiqua’s held a measure of kindness that was absent in his father’s ruthless eyes. And to Galadriel, it seemed that the blood of the Sindar was more prominent in Laiqua than in Thranduil. But she would never underestimate either of them.

“Well met, Thranduil Oropherion,” Galadriel accepted his arm and followed his lead into the fortress. As soon they were alone in the dark, yet, dimly-lit corridors, she reached up to kiss his cheeks and relaxed into his embrace.

“I am glad that you came,” he smiled as he led her into her chambers, “I was worried that I would not have company until Erestor comes over for the next year. Where is your husband?”

“I always keep my promises unlike him,” Galadriel smiled at the warmth in his voice, “Especially those concerning you, Ernil-nîn.”

They watched Laiqua and Thalion walk together in the gardens. The prince was talking earnestly, moving his arms to emphasize his points. But he was a sincere listener, as he remained patiently attentive when Thalion replied. Thranduil had only one path, his path. He rarely took advice unless it was from Erestor. Laiqua seemed more moderate and reserved.

“So like Oropher,” Galadriel whispered, “He does listen to others.”

“Well,” Thranduil sighed as he gazed upon his son, “Let us not forget that my father’s austere acceptance of others led to his folly in the ultimate end. I, for all my impulsiveness, would never have made that decision.”

“He did what he did, for the greater good. I will not deny that he was thinking of you the most,” Galadriel smiled sadly, “You have always had powerful champions, Thranduil. And I thank the fates for that. Oropher, Anoriel, Celeborn, Elrond…”

“I have received a letter from Ingwë,” Thranduil began hesitantly, “He wants me to send Laiqua across the sea. It is pathetic, how things move in circles.”

“And what was your reply?” Galadriel asked tentatively.

“I told him that I cannot let my son sail. Not even if Sauron himself is in my courtyard. My son is the only thing keeping me alive, Galadriel. And I will not give him up. If we ever sail, we shall sail together,” Thranduil sighed.

“Ever sail?” Galadriel echoed his words fearfully, “I had hoped that you would sail as soon as Sauron is defeated.”

“I cannot leave you all behind,” Thranduil said frankly, “We will sail only if you will. Otherwise I will be more than content to live and die beside those whom I have fought and ruled alongside for so long. I cannot let Elrond or Erestor or you fade away on these shores alone while I am in the lands of my mother-kin.”

“Thranduil…..,” Galadriel whispered overwhelmed by his passionate declaration, “We will not drag you down with us.”

“I made my choice long ago, Galadriel, when I asked you to stand in my mother’s stead for my marriage, when I aided Elrond trick Gil into an early bonding. There is no going back for any of us,” Thranduil sighed as he turned to the western windows, where the sun was drowning slowly in a brilliant blaze of blood red, “We shall ride into the last sunset together, Galadriel, all of us.”

“She will wait for you in Valinor,” Galadriel reminded him.

“She made her choice, the fate of Míriel Serindë,” Thranduil’s eyes darkened with a foreign emotion, Galadriel had never seen such a staggering amount of bitterness in those emerald depths, “She chose death over my son and me. She will not wait for me in Valinor, Galadriel. The bonds are broken.”

 

“MY LORD!” the scouts hurried to Celeborn, who was surveying the corpses of the orcs they had massacred with distaste.

“Yes?” he flung off his mare impatiently as they carried a wrapped up form to him.

“Your grandson,” they breathed as they lay the form down at the Silver Tree’s feet.

Celeborn gasped and knelt down by the figure, gathering the chilled body into his arms. He hastily checked the frame over for any injuries. There seemed to be nothing more severe than frostbite for which he was very grateful.

“Ada?” the half-conscious figure trembled in the gale.

“It is your grandfather, young lord,” Celeborn wrapped his cloak over the huddled up form, “What happened, Elladan?” he continued worriedly, as one scenario over another piled in his imaginative mind.

“Naneth and Elrohir left Imladris with an escort of twenty. Ada Elrond and I rode after them. The orcs slew the escort. I slipped away from the main party and tried to find them,” Elladan bent his head in shame, “I know I acted most stupidly.”

Celeborn took a deep breath and asked quietly, “Are you saying that my daughter is missing?”

Elladan shivered, but it was less due to the coldness of the nature than the coldness in Celeborn’s eyes.

“The next time I get my hands on your father, I don’t care which one, I am going to become a kinslayer,” Celeborn promised grimly before getting to his feet and beckoning another elf to take charge of his grandchild. Elladan watched in fear as Celeborn mounted his mare and commanded his warriors to move westwards towards Imladris.

 

“What happened to Celeborn?” Thalion asked Galadriel at the celebratory feast held in her welcome.

“A missive came from Imladris,” Galadriel paused, “It was vague, yet urgent. Celeborn followed Glorfindel almost immediately, I think.”

“Under the circumstances, it would have been better if you had ridden out for Imladris, Celeborn’s temper is volatile at the best of times,” Thalion observed, “And he has forgiven neither Elrond nor Erestor.”

“There was nothing I could do,” she smiled wryly, “His mind is set when it comes to our daughter. But I am sure that Erestor would have contrived to send a message of warning if it had been something regarding her.”

“Dance with me, Thalion?” Thranduil arrived at their seats after a circuit of the gathering. 

“I am too old for all this,” Thalion rolled his eyes, “Go, dance to oblivion yourself. But keep an eye on your son. He has this tendency to move towards the Dorwinion when you are away.”

They watched Thranduil dance gracefully with a young maiden, who was blushing each time his fingers brushed her person.

“That he should be bereaved once more,” Galadriel sighed, “Why do they take away who matters to us the most?”

“She did it out of her own volition,” Thalion reminded her, “She could have stayed for him and Laiqua. She could have chosen life. His face was bitterly expectant as we rode into the glade. He had known, he begged her not to leave, that he was almost there.”

“She was young, and she was frightened,” Galadriel said quietly, “She could not have known the significance of the prayer she whispered.”

“Maedhros did not pray the words of Míriel even when he hung on the Thangorodrim, Fingolfin did not use those words when he faced Morgoth in single combat, Fingon did not even when he was being burnt to his death, Gil-Galad did not….,” Thalion shook his head, “She broke the bonds, for that I do not think she ever merits forgiveness. Would you have the same in that situation even if you had been naïve and young?”

“No,” Galadriel sighed, “None in my family will ever willingly choose the fate of Míriel.”

“But Thranduil let her go. He lives, not merely a shadow as Oropher was. That lightens my mind,” Thalion whispered, “He is stronger than his father. I am proud of him.”

“He is a perfect parent,” Galadriel remarked as Thranduil coaxed his son into a dance.

“Yes, sometimes when I see him, I am filled with hope,” Thalion smiled as he leant back into his chair and watched the king he had helped raise.

 

“Elrond!” Erestor called out as he saw a flicker of movement to the east, “East! Warriors at ready, archers to the front. Steady the houses, dim the torches.”

“Fall back!” Elrond called out to his friend, “’Tis a fast moving contingent.”

“Elves,” Erestor cantered back to Elrond, “Celeborn, I think. The flash of his hair is quite unmistakable.”

They stared at each other in worry, exhaustion and determination. 

“Hail, my friends,” Celeborn’s voice was cold, “What a picnic you have arranged in the mountains.”

“Celeborn,” Elrond glanced at Erestor and rode forth to meet his father-in-law, who at the moment looked very like a haughty prince of Doriath.

“Ada!” Elladan called out weakly from behind his grandfather.

“Elladan,” Erestor brought his horse forth and dismounted, “You frightened us all!”

“I know that the two of you must be quite engrossed in each other,” Celeborn said in a voice that could cut steel, “But I must ask, where is my daughter and my other grandson? I will take them to my lands and leave you to your depravities and oath breakings.”

“You could have done that from the beginning,” Elrond cut in coldly. Erestor threw him an imploring look and addressed Celeborn, “Please, my friend, we must find her first before we come to blows regarding this. Elrond and I are more worried for her safety than for the oathbreakings you accuse us of.”

“This will be the last time we call each other by name, Lord Erestor,” Celeborn said coldly, “We are no more friends in my view. I have had enough of your Valar cursed house.”

“Let us find her first,” Erestor said calmly, his eyes meeting Celeborn’s cold blue ones with worry, “And Elrohir.”

“I want you to swear that you will have no right over my grandchildren,” Celeborn persisted, “Elrond and you.”

“Can’t you postpone this?” Elladan said quietly, “I want my mother and my brother back first.”

“Yes, Elladan,” Elrond smiled grimly, “Lord Celeborn, that is exactly what I want to say. Let us find them.”

“I have sent word to Thranduil,” Erestor murmured, “He might know something. Elbereth knows, he has quite the intelligence ring.”

* * *

Thranduil leant against the elaborate mantelpiece of his chambers as he read the missive from Erestor. He could hear Galadriel teaching his son the names of the stars in Quenya. Her voice seemed light and carefree. He glanced at his friend’s elegant script again. He would tell her tomorrow. He closed his eyes and tried to reach out to Erestor. 

 

“ELROND!” Celeborn called urgently, “Tracks lead into that gorge down there. I have sent forth the scouts.”

“I will have the ropes brought,” Elrond called back.

“I am going down,” Celeborn dismounted and braided his hair back impatiently, “It is my daughter and my grandson down there. You follow at your own pace, after you get the damn ropes.”

“Celeborn,” Elrond grit his teeth and wished Erestor was there to rein in Celeborn, “That is unwise.”

“Don’t teach me wisdom, Elrond, I have had enough of that from my revered wife,” Celeborn snarled before motioning to his scouts and climbing down the gorge, with an experienced ease that Elrond might have admired if it had been a different circumstance.

Elrond dismounted and asked his warriors for the ropes. He absently wondered how Erestor and Glorfindel were faring in Moria. It would be a bloodbath in the depths of the old dwarven mines. No wonder why they had assigned Celeborn here. In his current temper, the distraught father was likely to be reckless.

They lowered the ropes and fastened them to the rock face before Elrond led his warriors down. They were elves and quite steady on foot on most surfaces. But he would not take any more chances. He had left Elladan in Erestor’s care. The twins still held an amount of reluctant obedience when Erestor kept an eye on them.

Elrond followed Celeborn’s silvery, confident form into the tunnels. His nose picked up the smell of blood. He shuddered. The last time he had seen elven blood spilt was in Greenwood. When he had arrived too late to rescue Anoriel. He would never forget the sight of a blood-soaked Erestor falling to his knees before Thranduil in despair. It had taken Elrond all that he was to not rush to Erestor’s side, shake his shoulders and pound into his head that Anoriel’s death was not his fault.

“Bria!” Celeborn’s voice was alarmed, yet mixed with relief. 

Elrond rushed into the caves, his sword at the ready. Celeborn emerged, carrying his unconscious, weakly-breathing daughter in his hands. Celebrían’s arm bled from an orc-arrow. The tip of the arrow still seemed to be embedded in her flesh. Elrond hurried to her side and inspected it.

“Poisoned,” he said grimly as he helped Celeborn carry her up the gorge, “We must take her immediately to Imladris.”

“How much?” Celeborn demanded quietly.

“I would suspect three hours,” Elrond estimated, “We must be quick, Celeborn. You will take her to the valley and get the healers to work on her. I must stay with the warriors and send word to Glorfindel. I will continue searching for Elrohir.”

“I will search for Elrohir,” Celeborn cut in, “You are the best healer here. Thalion and Galadriel are too far away. Get her to Imladris then.”

Elrond wanted to oppose him, to continue the search for his son. But the determined glacial expression on Celeborn’s face made him nod in acquiescence.

 

Glorfindel pulled Erestor behind him protectively. He feared the grim set of Erestor’s jaw and the cold glitter in the black eyes. They had been searching in the dark, hot caves for hours. And their torches were flickering out. The warriors that accompanied them were growing increasingly uneasy.

Glorfindel had almost given up any conversation from his friend when Erestor whispered, “The heat is unnatural.”

“Maybe there is a dormant volcano,” Glorfindel breathed as he ran his eyes carefully along the narrow path.

“There are no volcanoes in the Hithaeglir, Glor. Unless…,” Erestor paused uncertainly, “There is a forge down here.”

“The dwarven forges have been long deserted,” Glorfindel said dismissively.

“But there must be a forge down there,” Erestor reiterated, “Nothing else can explain this heat.” He made to move forward past Glorfindel, who pushed him firmly behind.

“Stay there. I will not let you walk into whatever waits at the end,” Glorfindel said in a hard tone that could brook no argument.

“I am quite sure that I am capable of-----,” Erestor stopped as a shrill, primal scream sounded from the innermost depths of the dark tunnel.

Glorfindel steadied himself against the walls and took a deep breath as the tortured scream arose again, but this time they were able to distinguish one single word from the incoherent babble,

“Elbereth!” 

“Elrohir!” 

Erestor ducked neatly under Glorfindel’s arms and ran on, his sword at the ready. Glorfindel cursed and followed his friend into the darkness. They carried no torches, and the warriors who carried them had not yet recovered from their shock to follow them.

He paused his mad run after Erestor as the latter stopped abruptly. They faced a raised platform. At least two dozen orcs jeered on as a writhing, burnt figure was being whipped with a coarse whip. 

Erestor rushed in, the familiar death mask settling on his face. Glorfindel notched an arrow onto his bow and fired at the orc who seemed to be the leader. With a loud cry, the orc fell even as the rest of them began firing coarse, but highly effective crossbolts. Glorfindel thanked his instincts for having worn his armour that day. 

“For you, My Lady,” Erestor dedicated his first kill even as Glorfindel began proving his millennia of experience with relish, the half-sneer curving his lips.

Together, back-to-back, they fought against the overwhelming odds. Glorfindel cringed when a orc swiped at Erestor’s feet making him falter and crumple. But Erestor managed to roll over before the scimitar struck him again. But the main aim of separating them achieved, the orcs began to close in. 

Glorfindel backed slowly to the walls, his aggression fading into cunning defence. A part of him noticed that Erestor was becoming more aggressive. For a moment, he was reminded of the blood that ran in his friend’s veins, the blood of Finwë. Erestor was not giving in an inch of ground to his enemies, swinging his sword with his right hand and one of his curved long-knives with the left. As an orc crumpled to the ground, he bounded onto it and jumped over the next orc landing on his feet nimbly in the pit where Elrohir lay bound and forced on his knees. 

Erestor glanced at Glorfindel and nodded. Glorfindel shouted a Quenya warcry and began an aggressive attack on his side, drawing the orcs away from Erestor, who was trying to free an incoherently babbling Elrohir.

Erestor closed his eyes in pain as he saw the state in which the younger elf was. Biting his lower lip, he proceeded to cut the bonds and held Elrohir before he collapsed limply to the ground.

His fingers brushed accidentally against the ugly brand mark on Elrohir’s forearm, which was still raw-burnt. Elrohir screamed and began thrashing his arms wildly, trying to get away.

“Elrohir, it is Ada,” Erestor lifted him into his arms and got to his feet, “We are leaving this place, ion-nîn, Stay with me.”

“Ada!” Elrohir’s pupils were dilated in fear, “Why did you come? They will find you too, Ada, you must leave!”

Erestor stopped walking when he saw that he was faced by three orcs. Glorfindel was still feet away fighting two at once. Grimly, Erestor stared at his enemies. Before he could set Elrohir down and pick up his sword, the orcs would definitely behead him. 

“Ada,” Elrohir whispered in horror, clutching Erestor’s tunic desperately. 

Glorfindel watched in rising panic as Erestor retreated carrying Elrohir’s limp form. He tried to move towards his friend. But the orcs were pressing him to defence. He could not even gain an inch of ground. Erestor’s eyes met his own in silent despair. 

 

Celeborn rushed to Imladris, his outriders trying to keep up with his mad pace. He barely registered the elves scampering out of his way as he cantered wildly into the courtyard of the last homely home east of the sea.

“My Lord,” Lindir rushed out, “Lord Elrond asked me to take you to the healing halls.”

“I come,” Celeborn said shortly, “Has there been any news of Elrohir?”

“Nothing yet,” Lindir said quietly, “Lord Erestor sent a missive bare hours ago stating that they had some tracks in an old mining tunnel abandoned by the dwarves.”

Celeborn cast a worried glance to the mountains before following Lindir into the house, his fingers clenching into fists.

Elladan was seated in a low chair outside the closed doors of the healing chambers. His hands were pressed to his forehead in a gesture of utter despair. He looked up fearfully as Celeborn entered the antechamber and closed the door behind him. Elladan was scared that his grandfather would again start fight with Elrond.

“Young lord,” Celeborn nodded to him before walking to the window and staring out. 

Elladan gathered up his much-lacking courage and asked softly, “Any news, Grandfather?”

“Nothing yet,” Celeborn sighed, “What happened to make them act so stupidly?”

Elladan gulped, Celeborn’s eyes sharpened almost imperceptibly. 

“Tell me,” Celeborn commanded.

“Naneth left the feast after Haldir spoke of the relationship,” Elladan inhaled deeply, “She was most upset. And so was Elrohir. And Naneth spoke to Ada Erestor in the morning before dawn. They did not part well,” Elladan paused, “I awoke to find the letter from Elrohir stating that he was leaving for Lothlórien with Naneth.”

“I should have never given my daughter to him!” Celeborn said bitterly, “We are returning to my land as soon as Celebrían is ready to travel. Enough have I had the Noldor corrupting my bloodlines and my heirs. From now, you shall swear off your father’s ancestry and take up mine.”

Elladan shook his head wearily as he stood up to face his grandfather, “I cannot leave Ada Elrond or Ada Erestor. I love Naneth. But it is not her who has always been there for Elrohir and me.”

“You don’t realize the depth of disgrace that you will have to bear in any normal society. Dubious parentage. Your actual father lusting after your mother’s husband,” Celeborn said coldly.

“You are wise, and you have more experience of the world. But I will never be ashamed of my ‘dubious’ parentage, as you call it,” Elladan said softly, “They raised me to be proud of what I am. And I am.”

“You are young and deluded,” Celeborn said dismissively, “I can warn you well that Elrond will bow in to my wishes this time. He cannot risk any more isolation. My lands are strategic, Thranduil is retreating north steadily.”

Elladan did not reply. He had always heard that Celeborn never exaggerated his words. It must be true. If Celeborn said that Elrond had no choice but to bow to his wishes, then Elladan knew that he had to resign himself to that.

 

“Thranduil,” Galadriel entered his chambers and walked to the windowsill where he was seated.

She had observed that he seemed worried all day. His smile had never warmed his eyes and his gestures were taut with tension.

“Galadriel,” he turned to acknowledge her, his green eyes were dark with some powerful emotion.

“What is it?” she asked as she ran her fingers through his hair, “Anything I should know?”

Thranduil smiled wanly, “Gildor is coming this week. He precipitated his arrival when he heard that it was you and not Celeborn visiting me this time. He is growing fond of you, I suspect.”

“He reminds me of my brother, Finrod Felagund,” Galadriel said reminiscently, “I have promised to help Thalion in the healing halls today. I will go now.”

“Send Laiqua to me,” Thranduil called after her, “He must be with Thalion.”

 

Thranduil closed his eyes with a sigh as a pair of warm palms enfolded him tightly from behind. 

“Leafling,” Thranduil murmured as he turned in the embrace and pried away his son’s hands.

“You are worried,” Laiqua said quietly, pressing a kiss to his father’s signet ring, “What is it?”

“Orcs attack the southern borders daily. The paths east are all beset by wild men and slavers,” Thranduil closed his eyes again, “I suspect the wraiths have assembled in Dol Guldur, Sauron’s power is increasing. The forests burn. I have reasons enough and more to be worried.”

“Perhaps,” Laiqua said softly, “It is time for me to take on my duties in the barracks and at court.”

“You will do nothing of the sort,” Thranduil said harshly, “You are not riding on patrol until you reach your majority.”

“Ada,” Laiqua interrupted, “You cannot expect me to remain behind when almost everyone of my age ride on patrols.”

“You will remain behind,” Thranduil commanded, “Until I see it fit for you to ride out.”

“Ada!” the prince said firmly, “You cannot keep coddling me and overprotecting me. That is what you did with Naneth,” he shivered as Thranduil looked involuntarily at his wife’s portrait, “You cannot forever keep me safe however much you want to.”

“Laiqua,” Thranduil took a step closer to his son, “I failed to save my father. I failed to save your mother. I cannot even bear the thought of failing you too. Please, Laiqua, for my sake.”

“Ada,” the prince sighed as regrets swirled in his father’s limpid green eyes, “As you wish, of course. I will never oppose your wishes.”

“Thank you, my leafling,” Thranduil smiled softly before ruffling his son’s neatly braided hair and turning away to the window again. 

The prince shook his head at his father’s overprotective nature and left the room. He saw Galadriel trying to talk with a Sylvan aide, who did not obviously speak Sindarin. 

A smile lit his lips as he saw her gesticulate excitedly to make her meaning clearer. He walked over to her.

“May I help you?” he offered still smiling.

“I wanted directions to the herb gardens,” she shrugged, “I was doing well enough, but how do I mime ‘herbs’?”

Laiqua winked at the unhappy Sylvan maid making her blush deeply before bowing clumsily and running away. 

“I suppose that will make her day,” Galadriel remarked distastefully.

“You speak as if you have never indulged in some kind of flirting,” Laiqua said teasingly, “I find it difficult to believe.”

“We, the Noldor, never flirt,” Galadriel laughed, “Flirting is simply a Sindarin speciality. Your father is a pastmaster of that, Eru knows!”

“Was my mother also very vivacious?” Laiqua asked quietly.

“She took after Melian….very calm, kind and a soul devoted to nature,” Galadriel said thoughtfully, “She was no weakling, always stood up to her father. Indeed, they proclaimed their love before an entire council in Lindon.”

“Why then does Thalion say that the bond between my parents is broken?” he asked almost inaudibly, his eyes averted to the sparring warriors in the yard.

Galadriel took his hand and squeezed it gently before saying, “That is because Anoriel called to Mandos through the prayer of Míriel Serindë. That prayer asks for an eternity in the halls of waiting, in the halls of Mandos. This breaks all bonds to those who still live. That is how my grandfather was able to marry again.”

“But didn’t his second marriage bring on the doom upon the Noldor?” he asked incredulously, “Isn’t that why they have the doom of Míriel, Finwë and Indis?”

“It is different,” Galadriel said quietly, “Míriel did not break her bond to Finwë willingly, her son drained her of life. She gave up her life, but she never gave up her love for Finwë. Finwë loved her and though he married my grandmother, his heart always belonged to Míriel Serindë. Indis, my grandmother, loved him deeply. It was a three way unrequited love.”

They had stopped walking. She continued, “Your mother made a mistake out of her ignorance. She prayed for an eternity in the halls of death. She will never be released. All her bonds to life are broken.”

“If my father married again, he will be in Finwë’s postion,” Laiqua said pensively, “Isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Galadriel said calmly, “But your father will never marry again. He may grow to love and cherish someone worthy of him over time. But he will not bond again. He is wise. He will not bring upon the doom of Finwë over his house.”

“My mother was ignorant, Eru rest her soul,” he mumbled as Galadriel’s grip on his hand tightened, “I don’t think anyone who knows the exact story will ever make this mistake.”

“I think you will be surprised if you know the truth,” Galadriel watched the sunset sadly, “Even the wisest are not free from that four-lettered beast called love.”

* * *

He had no wish to see the person he cared for the most in this cursed world to die before him. He swirled about and leapt, landing unsteadily before his friend. 

“Run!” he panted angrily. He hoped sincerely that his friend would not stop to think and debate now.

However his companion nodded and began moving backwards towards the narrow path through which they had come. Glorfindel sighed and raised his sword as the orcs closed in on him. He really did not fear death. But he wanted to live, for his friend’s sake. They had all lost so much.

A flurry of elven arrows interrupted his fight for survival. The warriors they had led into the tunnel had finally reached them. Glorfindel whispered a few words of relief when the leader of the warriors fought his way towards the seneschal. Then he hurried on after his friend.

“’Restor!” He called loudly as he saw his friend mount his stallion ungainly, the limp form within his arms making movement difficult.

“Come, Glor, he is dying,” Erestor murmured as he nudged his horse into a canter.

Glorfindel was about to ask him to be more careful on the perilous slopes, but Erestor had already begun galloping west. Sighing, he leapt onto his mare and followed his friend.

 

Elrond washed his hands in the basin brought to him and walked out. He found Elladan and Celeborn expectantly waiting outside. 

“She is past danger,” Elrond smiled wanly, “But there is still an amount of poison in her blood. I think we must take her to Thalion.”

“Send for Thalion,” Celeborn said coldly, “Immediately. Thranduil will not deny that, after all, my wife is keeping him company.”

Elladan looked nervously at his father. Elrond’s temper was near the breaking point and Celeborn did not seem disposed to be in a milder manner. Elladan was desperate for news of his twin. He feared that this breach between his father and grandfather would only prolong Elrohir’s plight.

“It is not my fault that your daughter chose to ride escorted by so few a number when she knew very well that the passes are perilous at the best of times. And it is not my fault that she was foolish enough to get an orc arrow in her arm. If you ever attempt to pin the entire guilt on my side and the suffering on yours, Lord Celeborn, I would not hesitate to betray my healer’s vow and poison your daughter hovering between here and Mandos. Is that understood?” Elrond snapped angrily before turning to enter the healing chamber again. 

Celeborn cursed him before following him into the room. Elladan hovered undecidedly outside the door, but then resolved to follow them at least to attempt averting a kinslaying in there. To his relief, however, Celeborn and Elrond had initiated a silent, mutual truce and made no further accusations.

 

Elrohir tried to concentrate on the sound of the wind, tried to remain conscious. He shuddered as his mind once again relived the torment. He pulled back instinctively towards Erestor’s chest. His ear struck against bare skin and rib. He shivered as he felt the hammering heart beneath the skin, Erestor was far more worried than he had let on to Elrohir.

“Ada?” he whispered.

“Stay quiet, ion-nîn,” Erestor’s voice was raw with pain, something liquid and hot splashed onto Elrohir’s face. 

“Ada, I will be all right,” he continued quickly. He could not imagine how affected Erestor would be to lose control over his composure so. The horse stopped abruptly before picking up pace again. Elrohir groaned in pain as his ribs jolted, sending spasms of pain through his body.

“Stay quiet,” Erestor whispered, “We are almost there. Just a few more hours.”

“Sing for me, Ada?” Elrohir tried to keep the pain out of his words. Glorfindel had finally caught up with them and was making hushing noises at Elrohir. 

Elrohir felt a soothing wave of relief wash over him as Erestor began a song. He recognized it as one of those songs that were always meant to put his twin and him into sleep. He drifted between dreams and pain, but the jeers of the orcs that had tortured him to near insanity were cleansed by Erestor’s low, rich, melodious voice.

 

Thranduil looked up as the door to his study opened. Gildor Inglorion strode in whistling a bawdy tavern song. Thranduil bit his lips to stifle a reluctant smile and decided to warn his friend against singing that before his son.

“I already taught him,” Gildor shrugged as he perched on the edge of Thranduil’s desk.

“Gildor!” Thranduil cringed, “That song is very explicit…And he has been learning the common tongue thesedays. He will understand!”

“It is high time he did,” Gildor said smirking, “My dear friend, should I remind you that you had already bedded me long before you were his age?”

Thranduil groaned exasperatedly before looking his friend over. Gildor seemed to be much better than the last time he had ended up wounded in Thranduil’s care. Wherever he had been wandering, he seemed to have had a less turbulent time.

“I would pay you your weight in gold if you did not tell him of my exploits at his age,” Thranduil chastised before returning to the fortification plan he had been working on, “And twice your weight in gold if you would not give him ideas to join the warriors before his majority.”

“It will not be easy on him when he sees those who are far younger than him leave for the patrols,” Gildor remarked, “I understand your reluctance. At least you could make it up to him by sending him with me for a couple of months every year.”

“You can go fry in Mordor,” Thranduil cursed, “I am not letting him out of my sight for two months a year. Gildor, he is too young.”

Gildor examined the defensive fortification plans that Thranduil drew before observing, “The path from Lothlórien to Greenwood is beset. I cleared it on my way here. But Celeborn’s armies don’t hold the Anduin secure. The valleys of the river are overrun. Thranduil, the world is not becoming any safer. Laiqua will one day need to raise his sword for the cause, perhaps even against the wraiths.”

“That day will rise only after I have drawn my last breath,” Thranduil snapped, “Gildor, I know that the Lothlórien archers are pathetic. That is why I no longer send my envoys and messengers through the old path. We have a different route, I will ask Laiqua to show you. And for your information, the prince is well trained in arms and battle techniques. I will not let him ride out until his majority. But after that, I will put him in charge at the river.”

“Coming to speak of Celeborn, wasn’t he supposed to come this year? I saw only my aunt,” Gildor asked curiously, reaching out to finger a loose strand of Thranduil’s golden hair.

“Yes,” Thranduil sighed and put down his marker, “I foresee another argument between them the way the things are moving.”

“Miss Erestor,” Gildor yawned as he spied the chief-counsellor’s elegant script on Thranduil’s desk, “He is well, I daresay, from the tone of the last letter I had from him. I saw him last year. Elrond and Glorfindel have managed to put some colour in his cheeks and some flesh on his bones. Even then, he looks so damned Fëanorian.”

“It must have been before the winter,” Thranduil said pensively, “I have not had a letter since that. The courier from Lothlórien is late. Where have you been wandering? You look civilized for once.”

“I have been in Gondor,” Gildor sighed, “The place is falling apart. Well, apart from Imladris and Greenwood, every other place is falling apart. Lindon was a disaster the last time I ventured there.”

“Come,” Thranduil rose to his feet gracefully, “I will arrange a meal for you.”

“Laiqua did already,” Gildor smiled as he watched the feline form of Thranduil Oropherion stretch languidly. Some things remained the same ever. The blatant sensuality of Thranduil’s golden body was one of those rare things.

“See something you like?” Thranduil rolled his eyes as he removed his crown and rubbed his forehead exhaustedly, “Or is it just that you are desperate for an elven body?”

“That would be interpreted as an open invitation,” Gildor laughed, “If I did not know you better, Ernil-nîn, I would think you are seducing me.”

“Perish the thought,” Thranduil snapped as he dragged his friend into the corridor, “Let us see where my household is.”

 

Glorfindel helped Erestor carry Elrohir into the house. Elrond was rushing out of the inner rooms, fear writ large on his austere face as he took in their blood stained forms.

“Elrohir,” he breathed as he knelt down by his son and took the pulse, “Bring him in, Glor. None of the wounds seem poisoned, thank Eru.”

Erestor helped Elrond bathe the soiled, broken body of Elrohir. He glanced across at Elrond, whose face was set grimly. Perhaps there had been another argument between Celeborn and Elrond.

“Yes,” Elrond sighed as Erestor lifted an eyebrow enquiringly even as they sedated Elrohir, “He was quite eloquent. Called us depraved.”

“Is she all right?” Erestor asked worriedly, “I feared that what had happened to Galadriel had happened to her too.”

“Things don’t obviously happen in circles always. She took a poisoned arrow, nothing worse. She will live,” Elrond shrugged, “Our son has endured much more.”

“Elrond….,” Erestor trailed away in grim fear as they examined the unclad body before them, “He has been through..”

“Everything,” Elrond sighed, “I pray that he has Maedhros’s endurance.”

“Elbereth,” Erestor traced a welt along Elrohir’s jaw, “So young…why did the Valar have to test him?”

“Because they were terribly bored,” Elrond said bitterly, “Celeborn is with Mithrandir, I am glad that the wizard is there to keep him off my hands.”

“Elrond,” Erestor paused as they finally finished tending to Elrohir, “I am glad that you did not see what happened there.”

Elrond lifted his hand to caress Erestor’s worn out face and said quietly, “I am glad too. I don’t think I could have borne it.”

 

They walked arm-in-arm towards the darkened dining room lit by only a few flickering torches. Galadriel and Thalion were talking quietly, already seated. Thranduil moved to his seat and uncovered his plate with relish.

“Hungry, young lord?” Thalion smirked, “You should remember that eating is necessary occasionally to keep your spine separate from your stomach.”

“Shut up, Thalion,” Thranduil advised as he voraciously dug his teeth into the well-prepared venison.

“I do believe that you have lost weight since I visited last,” Gildor remarked concernedly as he chose an apple and leant back in his chair, “Don’t you think so, My lady?”

“I agree,” Galadriel smiled at her kinsman, “But it will take more than our combined persuasive skills to make him see it.”

“ADA!” Laiqua burst into the room excitedly, “See whom I have brought home…,” an extremely furry balled-up creature whined soulfully from his arms. 

Thranduil rose to his feet, abandoning his repast and rushed to his son’s side. 

“It is a wolf,” he remarked disbelievingly, “Laiqua, you brought a wolf into the palace! Why would you want to do that?”

“She was lonely,” the prince said pensively, “And I was also alone. So I thought….I will free her into the woods if you ask me to, Ada.”

Thranduil looked into his son’s deep, lustrous eyes and sighed, he had lost the argument. He threw a warning glance at the three who sat at the table and smirked knowingly. 

“Ada?” Laiqua asked quietly, “She will be all right in the woods, won’t she?”

“Teach her to hunt,” Thranduil scratched the wolf-cub’s ears eliciting a low, husky sound of pleasure from the animal, “She seems quite friendly. I will allow you to train her if you promise to keep her away from the maids and the children.”

“Thank you, Ada!” Laiqua’s face lit up as he rose on his toes and kissed his father’s cheeks excitedly, “I am sorry that I interrupted your lunch.”

“Nonsense,” Thranduil dragged his son to the table forcefully, “Come and eat. And Gildor will help you to raise that cub. The Noldor are said to be valiant huntsmen, are they not?”

“We hunt merely animals,” Galadriel demurred, “Unlike the Sindar who have lustier game to chase.”

Laiqua laughed merrily as he broke off a piece of meat from the venison on his father’s plate and gnawed on it. Thalion hid his smile behind his goblet.

“What mean you, Galadriel?” Gildor asked with mock innocence, “In all these years, I have never known what the Sindar hunt.”

“Your anonymous admirer in Lothlórien has been hunting you for years,” Thranduil pointed out solicitously.

“Indeed,” Laiqua laughed, “Who is it, Ada? Will it be Haldir? He is certainly handsome. And my friends say that he is accomplished in this art.”

“Laiqua!” Thranduil growled, “That is no talk to be had during a meal! The influence of the depraved guests is corrupting you.”

“You corrupted us all a long while ago,” Thalion remarked, “There was a son who tried all the lowest schemes possible to make his father break his celibacy. Laiqua, young lord, maybe you should take on the task now.”

“Many of my friends say that they would love to be with you, Ada. And even their mothers, fathers, sisters and daughters will be overjoyed if you would deign to share,” Laiqua prodded his father’s arm insistently.

Thranduil threw him a filthy stare before concentrating on his food. Thalion and Galadriel left the table soon after. 

Thranduil was hoping that Gildor would not bring up any controversial topics before his son when Laiqua spoke, “Do you have a lover, Gildor?”

“Am I permitted to answer that question, Ernil-nîn?” Gildor smirked.

“Do as you wish,” Thranduil shrugged with a warning scowl, “I am weary of trying to maintain decorum at this table. What a household I have!”

“I have a lover, young lord,” Gildor said easily, “Though I do not have a bonded-mate.”

“You aren’t still romping with Glorfindel, are you?” Thranduil asked with narrowed eyes, “I thought you had better sense than that.”

“It is a human,” Gildor shrugged, “Glor is attracted to females these days.” 

“Doesn’t make sense,” Thranduil said quietly, “I would have thought that he would avoid females after the loss of Menelwen.”

 

Elladan crept into the room where Elrohir lay, his twin was still in the sedated sleep that Elrond had put him in. He gulped as he smoothed the bruised temples and the blackened eyes. There was a stench of burnt flesh all over his twin’s form. He sat down on the edge of the bed, praying to all the gods he knew. Outside he could hear Elrond’s and Celeborn’s voices once more raised in furious argument. He sighed, everything in his life seemed to have taken an abrupt turn for the worse.

“’Dan?” Elrohir murmured in his sedated sleep.

 

“I’m here, ‘Ro,” Elladan muffled his head in the bedcovers as he finally gave in to the tears that had been threatening him since the start of the ordeal.

 

After Gildor had left, Thranduil leant back exhaustedly in his chair. Laiqua was walking about the room dimming the torches. Finally, he came to his father’s side and pulled him to his feet persistently. 

“Ada, it is time for bed,” he grinned as Thranduil looked up blearily. 

He did not know how his father could work for hours on end without any thought to rest or food. He managed to crook an arm around his father’s waist and navigated expertly towards their chambers. He knew very well that his father would not sleep unless there was someone to watch over him. Usually, it was Thalion who spent the nights with Thranduil. Galadriel took on the duty whenever she could be spared from the healing halls. Gildor was ready to take on the task, but Thranduil had reservations. Laiqua smiled wryly, his father feared that a simple gesture of comfort would somehow result in something more intimate; Gildor still harboured an attraction for Thranduil.

“Ada,” he pushed his father into the large bed and caught his breath. Then he bent to pull his father’s legs onto the bed.

“Amn’t asleep, leafling,” Thranduil focussed his eyes with great effort and frowned at his son, “Go to bed. It is late.”

Laiqua crept into bed beside his father and pulled the sheets over them, “’Night, Ada.”

Thranduil simply grumbled something about disobedient sons, but then snaked an arm around his son and fell asleep. Laiqua smiled and looked adoringly at the only parent he had ever known. He had met many powerful elves, but none of them were as wise, powerful, compassionate and valiant like Thranduil Oropherion. And none of them were so beautiful. He wondered how his father could be so unaware of his charm. Half of elvendom was still attracted to Thranduil. He grinned drowsily, he would find a match for his father. Thalion was right; it was high time that he did something about his father’s misplaced sense of celibacy. Happily, he followed his father into sleep.

* * *

“Thranduil,” Galadriel entered his study armed with an old, rusty chest, “I found this tucked away in a corner of my chambers.”

“Hmmm,” Thranduil glanced up and recognition dawned on his features, “That was mine once.”

“Tales of old conquests?” she laughed teasingly, “Anything your son should not see?”

“I honestly have no idea,” he got to his feet and came around the desk to inspect it, “Your chambers were once my bachelor chambers. So it must have been left behind. Let us see what secrets are there in.”

He rummaged through the contents of his old war chest. He wondered how long it had been since he had last opened it. Before his marriage, during Eregion; he estimated roughly as he glanced through the battle plans. His lips curved into a soft smile as he saw his father’s doodles on the maps. So this was what Oropher had been doing those boring war councils. He put them aside and then rifled through the rest. Scrolls, letters, some of which seemed to be in Quenya. Quenya? He frowned and dragged them out. Not a hand he recognized.

How had they landed up in his chest? Galadriel gasped suddenly as she grabbed a faded script.

“Thranduil….,” she said faintly as she leant against the desk to support herself, “Where did you get this from?”

“As strange as it may sound, I have no idea. I don’t recall seeing these ever before. You know the hand?” he asked frowning.

“Read it, for my hand trembles,” she whispered brokenly, “I know the hand well. It is my cousin’s.”

Thranduil frowned and began reading,

 

“Dear Elros,  
I have been worried by Macalaurë’s reports that you seem to have an unhealthy interest in the affairs and life of the mortals. Child, immortality may be a curse at times. Trust me, for I know that well. So I understand your motives more than you think.

I don’t have my brother’s foresight. But even I can tell that your path diverges from our kind. I have loved you both as the sons I have never had. If you would choose mortality, promise me that it will be only after we are separated by my oath. I have lost much in my cursed life, I don’t think I will survive your choice or your death. But I am glad that the Gift of Men will grant you absolution from our family’s doom.

I must live, cursed though my life is. I will not have my brother bear the end alone. And my cousin, Artanis, now married to Celeborn of Doriath. I will not have the curse of our house fall upon my foster-sons, my nephews, or on Artanis. As long as I live, it shall be my burden alone.

To me life has come full circle. I have been a crown prince, an heir, an obedient son, a kinslayer, an oath swearer, a captive, a high-king, an oath breaker, a warrior, a leader, a nomad, a foster-father and a penitent sinner. I would give everything I am to save you and your twin from this.   
Ever,  
Nelyafinwë Maitimo Fëanorion.”

 

“Elbereth,” Thranduil breathed, “This was from the pile Elrond had left behind before the war in Mordor. I remember now.”

“We must return it to him,” Galadriel said closing her eyes, “My cousin always sacrificed himself for our sakes. He would have made an excellent ruler, an excellent father, an excellent husband…Valar be cursed.”

Thranduil opened his mouth to protest the blasphemy. But then he glanced again at the letter and sighed.

 

“….And so the Lord Saruman of Isengard has asked me to organize a meeting in Lothlórien. All elven rulers, a few of the Istari, and the human and dwarven leaders who can be persuaded to come. He has grand ideas, Saruman. If he had not been an Istari, I would have called him a Noldo,” Celeborn said uneasily, “Elrond has deemed it ready for Elrohir to travel in a week or so.”

“Ada, will you ask Lord Erestor to grace me with a visit?” Celebrían asked her father pensively, “I owe him an apology. It was my mistake that led to the deaths of so many, not to mention Elrohir’s plight.”

“What happened?” Celeborn smoothed his daughter’s dress caressingly. 

“I took an arrow. Elrohir tried to draw them away from me. He bade me escape into one of those caves. That is from where you rescued me,” she faltered, “What happened to my son, Ada?”

“I will ask Erestor to come,” Celeborn got to his feet determinedly, “You promise not to stir out of this bed until I return?”

“Yes, Ada,” she said quietly, it was clear that he would not answer any question related to Elrohir.

She gathered her courage grimly as Erestor entered the room closing the door softly behind him. She noticed that his robes hung loosely on his frame. He looked as if he had not slept or rested or had a good meal in days. They must have been really worried for Elrohir. She gulped, would Erestor tell her what happened if she were to ask? His deep, black eyes moved over her limp form appraisingly as if ascertaining her state of recovery. A flicker of a smile washed in relief across his gaunt features as she rose and leant her back against the head of the large bed.

“You are better, I daresay?” he came to stand by her side, his long fingers smoothing out the crinkles in the sheets.

“I am fine now,” she said quietly, “Would you sit? I wish to speak of our last meeting. There is much I should apologize for.”

“I have put it behind me,” he said reassuringly as he continued standing, “So should you. We have all been worried for you, ‘Bría…I hope you are fully recovered soon,” she nodded silently, “And,” he paused, “Elrohir is well on the road to recovery. Don’t worry about him.”

“I know well that Elrond and you will spare nothing to have him hale again,” she smiled wanly, “It was all my fault.”

“Lord,” an aide hailed from outside, “A missive from Lord Saruman.”

“I must leave,” he reached over to brush his fingers reassuringly against her hands clenched together in her lap, “I will look in on you soon. The council matters have to be attended to. Else I would have stayed longer and kept you company.”

“Thank you for coming.”

 

Elrond looked up as Erestor entered his chambers and sat down beside him on the couch, a troubled expression on his features.

“Yes?” Elrond asked quietly, “She is well, right?”

“She has a strange power coursing through her,” Erestor said worriedly, “Something not unlike what I felt when Gil was struck down by the enemy. Something very powerful and poisonous. I feel that the poison has spread in her body.”

“I did feel something while I was tending to her,” Elrond paused, “I thought it was merely my dislike of her that made me react. I believe that we found her at least only three hours after the wound was taken.”

“Glorfindel will sense if something of the poison is lingering in her blood,” Erestor said quietly, “He has always sensed evil. I will ask him as soon as Celeborn is safely occupied with the council. No point in bringing down his wrath upon us yet again.”

“Would you take on the negotiations?” Elrond asked hopefully, “I cannot imagine enduring Celeborn and Haldir. And Glor says Saruman too is a sharp tongued soul.”

“I will take on the meetings, but what will you do?” Erestor asked with a wry smile, “Certainly you don’t mean to sneak away with your paramour to the stream of Nimrodel.”

“Unfortunately my choice of paramours has always been much criticised. First, it had been a betrothed prince. Then it is a widowed chief-counsellor,” Elrond sighed dramatically, “I cannot stoop to accept a lower paramour. And there are certainly none who will match the grandeur I have come to expect from my lovers.”

“You can always try Mithrandir….He is dying to have a taste of Middle-Earth in that way,” Erestor said straight-faced as he began unlacing his robes with great relish.

Elrond batted Erestor’s hands away and applied his own dexterous fingers to the task saying, “I am not impressed by the offer. He looks old and decrepit. Really!” he huffed.

Erestor leant forward to claim a kiss and parted his lips allowing Elrond’s tongue entry. Things were growing more heated as Elrond pushed his companion onto the couch and covered Erestor’s body with his own. Erestor smiled and relaxed wilfully, wrapping his legs possessively about Elrond. The sensual move spurred Elrond further into a dominative streak, which rarely rose in him. But, he thought delightedly, he could not possibly waste Erestor’s willingness now.

“Ada!” Elladan knocked, “Grandfather says he wants to speak with you now!”

Elrond groaned in disgust and sat up, pulling Erestor for a last passionate kiss. They exchanged a mutual glance of sympathy before rearranging their robes and making themselves fit to be seen before leaving to deal with Celeborn’s latest argument.

 

Galadriel smiled as Laiqua rode alongside her, singing softly to himself. It was one of the songs she had taught him, she, in turn, had learnt it from Maglor. 

“It will not do,” Thranduil murmured as he gently cuffed his son’s head, “To sing a Noldorin song while in the company of a Sindar King.”

“Sindar?” Galadriel raised her brows in mock dissent.

“Amongst many other things, I am certainly Sindarin, from my father’s side,” he rejoined merrily.

“Oropher was Sindarin and Telerin in equal parts,” Galadriel said righteously, “So you have only a quarter of a claim to Sindarin ancestry, Elrond has more right to the throne.”

“His blood is too diluted,” Thranduil rolled his eyes, “As is my son’s. Sylvan, Maiar, Sindarin, Vanyarin, Telerin, I do hope that he doesn’t take a Noldo as spouse.”

“I won’t, Ada,” Laiqua laughed as he danced his mare out of his father’s reach, “I think we might try human blood in our bloodlines next. What say you?”

“THAT WILL BE THE DAY I DISINHERIT YOU!” Thranduil roared as Laiqua laughed again and galloped away to join the front of the escort. 

 

Mithrandir swept into Erestor’s study without even the courtesy of a knock. He smiled despite the urgency of his errand when he saw his quarry seated at the desk immersed in a document. Erestor’s head was braced lightly on his left hand, while his right hand held a goblet of rich Dorwinion.

“You could have been killed thrice by a novice,” Mithrandir huffed as he settled into a chair before Erestor.

“What an insightful opinion,” Erestor murmured sardonically, not raising his eyes from the scroll, “And what brings you here on such a fine day? It seems excellent weather to pick an argument with Elrond, as is your wont on such days.”

“I have let Celeborn take up that thankless task,” Mithrandir took out a long pipe that he had discovered from his favourite Halfling-land during his travels.

“Smoke that here and I will relish the chance to throw you out,” Erestor warned, shooting the wizard a glare before returning to his scroll.

“A pity,” Mithrandir stowed away the pipe, wary of provoking his companion’s legendary Fëanorian temper, “And to think that I had come to announce the best news in a millennium.”

“Which is?” Erestor shoved the bottle of Dorwinion towards Mithrandir, “Take this poison. It is far reasonable than the weed you are so fond of.”

Mithrandir poured a goblet of the rich vintage for himself before leaning back in his chair as if preparing himself for a tough time. He took a fortifying gulp of the wine even as Erestor’s eyes narrowed in trepidation.

“Celebrimbor is not dead,” Mithrandir said quietly.

He noted abstractly that Erestor’s quill had slipped onto the parchment from his numb fingers. But except for that nothing betrayed the counsellor’s turmoil. 

“And why do you say that?” Erestor asked as he leant back in his chair and steepled his fingers, resting his chin atop them, “Had you a vision or a dream?”

“I have no foresight,” Mithrandir said frankly, “No, my source is something more convincing than a dream.”

“You will tell me,” Erestor said quietly, “I am his closest kinsman, and the last who saw him before he was taken away. I have a right to know his fate.”

“I met Lord Saruman while you were busy with tending to the wounded. He knows many things, though I have no idea how. Rest assured, his sources have always proved true. If he says that Celebrimbor is alive, then he is,” Mithrandir sighed.

“For now, let it be known to only us,” Erestor said pensively, “I hope that you are not right, but your confidence in Saruman makes me resigned to the fact that you are.”

“Must we not tell Elrond or Galadriel?” Mithrandir asked uneasily, “I mean, they are also related…”

“After the council,” Erestor said quietly, “Mithrandir, my friend, it is quite clear that Saruman is a clever player of the game. He must have had this information for decades. And he tells you now. He knows that you would consider it honour-bound to tell a kin of the ring-maker. Elrond, Gildor, Galadriel and myself are the only surviving kin Celebrimbor has; or had, I hope. Saruman knows that the four of us are players in this council. He wishes to have us unsettled and emotional for the meetings. He is cunning. But he has made a mistake in his calculations.”

“He had probably expected me to approach Elrond or Galadriel with this information,” Mithrandir pondered deeply, “That was his mistake?”

“No,” Erestor sipped his wine thoughtfully, “He knows you would come to me as I am the nearest blood relative to Celebrimbor. His mistake was that he assumed I would be of the typical temperament of the house of Finwë…hot-blooded, reckless, emotional.”

“I don’t know what to say. I am frightened that he would stoop to such cowardly tactics to win a few points in a council…I am stunned that you would dissect his motives so flawlessly. All that I can think of now is that he will have a worthy opponent at the council,” Mithrandir exhaled deeply, “I much prefer guileless halflings.”

“They may be not as innocent as they look,” Erestor remarked as he stood up and gazed at the clouded night sky, “Guile rises only when you are pushed to the edge, Mithrandir.”

 

 

“Elrond,” Celebrían entered her husband’s chambers resolutely, “We must talk.”

“If you command,” Elrond said uncertainly as he led her to the couch and sat down beside her, “What is it?”

“You have heirs. The house of Finwë lives on in them. We no longer need to keep up appearances. We can end this farce of an alliance,” she paused calmly, “We can and shall separate.”

“I will not deny that I am to be mostly blamed for this situation. You knew nothing of my secrets when you entered into marriage with me,” Elrond said sincerely, “But my dear ‘Bría, I had never wished the least of this to fall upon you. When I vowed to honour you, cherish you and protect you; I spoke the truth.”

“Call Erestor, Elrond. All that I must say concerns him too,” Celebrían said firmly, not giving into his pained expression, “I must, Elrond.”

 

“What is it?” Erestor asked worriedly as he glanced from Celebrían to Elrond, both of whom seemed extremely pensive, “Is the injury causing pain, ‘Bría?”

“No,” she quirked her lips into a sad smile, “At least not the obvious one.”

Erestor’s eyes widened in shock as he realized the real meaning behind her words. Celebrían sighed, as his eyes travelled to meet Elrond’s desperately seeking confirmation. How had she not noticed? Why had she been so blind all these centuries she had spent with them? The fire of their love, it was as obvious as the warmth of the sunrays that caressed the lands.

“Well,” Erestor said after an unhealthy pause, “Please, ‘Bría, neither of us meant you harm in the least.”

“It is past the time for examining our souls and analysing what we did. We have sinned, all of us,” she paused, “I, for one, am tired of this. The poison lingers in my veins. I wish to heal. I wish to be free of this tangle. I am willing to relinquish all I have in Imladris, as wife and mother. You are in love. I cannot do anything to stop that. Why should I bother trying? I will leave the field clear. I would have, years ago, if I had but known. But no, you were all so cleverly tricking me.”

“You plan to return to Lothlórien?” Elrond asked nervously, his eyes still averted in mortification at the nature of their conversation.

“No,” she sighed, “At least, maybe for a while. After that I had thought of moving to the Havens or to Greenwood. Perhaps I may find some healing there. Maybe Thalion can help me. Both Imladris and Lothlórien hold many memories.”

“I know that I have no right to oppose you,” Erestor said in an uncharacteristically hesitant voice, “’Bría, but I have to say that the twins must be at least allowed to know this from your lips directly.”

“I have suffered enough in my lifetime to last till the end of the world,” she sighed, “I no longer care if I must do right by my sons,” her eyes faded into swirling pale-blue, “Perhaps, I may….” Her tone was calculating now.

“What must we do to convince you?” Elrond asked enthusiastically, a smile tugging at his lips as he finally realized what she was offering; freedom.

“Elrond…”Erestor’s voice shook slightly, “We cannot...”

“I want a child. My own. The two of you and my parents shall relinquish all claim to this child of mine. I want that as parting gift,” her eyes measured a dumbfounded Elrond carefully before resting coolly on Erestor, who had turned pale, “That is the condition. As soon as that is done, I will leave you to your lives, tangled as they are.”

Elrond leant back slightly, closing his eyes as he tried not to recoil in shock, anger and disgust. His head was throbbing in pain as turbulently violent emotion fogged his reasoning. 

“How could you stoop so low?” he said through clenched teeth as he opened his eyes and stared at her venomously, “I have never stopped you from your pleasures or pursuits. Why would you do this to us? Haldir…or many others…”

“Lust is a reason,” she laughed bitterly, “But I assure you that at the moment, I don’t feel lust at all. It is pure vengeance, a payment for my suffering. For your betrayal, for lying to me through words, actions and deceit.”

“Then you should make the request of Celeborn as well,” Elrond said harshly, “He knew well of our love before I had even given a thought of marrying you for politics and heirbreeding.”

“My father is bonded,” she said quietly, “He has done me much wrong. But I know better than to tread where bonds are sacrosanct. Do your duty as my husband once and I shall leave you free, Elrond.”

“I am bonded,” Elrond said hastily as he rose to his feet as if scalded, “To Erestor. During the battle. 

“Explains much,” she sighed, “That you know him more than you know yourself, nothing shocks me any more. What a mess we have made of our lives,” her fingers clenched tightly in her lap, “You might have told me when I begged you for an heir that night in the gardens so long ago!”

“’Bría,” Erestor said persuasively, “You know that we can gain nothing by staring at the past. As you pointed out, we have all made errors. But I admit ours are graver than yours. I have serious objections to your request. First of all, who will believe us if you separate with an infant in your hands?”

“You can lie well when you want, Counsellor,” Celebrían said coldly, “Think on my conditions and let me know before we leave for this council. I have much to decide. And I cannot wait for eternity.If my parents know in the least this talk happened, then I assure you, we will be enemies. It may sound childish to you, to hear a woman whom you have tricked for centuries utter such threats. But remember that I no longer care, I no longer fear.”

“If we were to say no?” Elrond cut in as she rose and wrapped her shawl about her tightly.

“Then, my dearest husband, we are at odds. The common cause, the defeat of Sauron, that everyone in your cursed family lusts for, that will fail. I am but one woman. But I can sow enough hatred, discord and betrayal. That the sole, rightful heir to the throne of Finwë and the fallen high-king’s loyal bonded mate was responsible for ending Lord Elrond Peredhel’s idyllic marriage will not endear you both to elven hearts,” she smiled faintly, “Think upon it.”

As the door closed behind her, Erestor simply groaned and buried his head in his hands. 

Elrond shook his head muttering incredulously, “After all these years, she proves that she is her mother’s daughter, the vixen!”

“For all your cursing, I noticed that you did not say ‘no’ immediately,” Erestor said softly.

“It would not do to be so forthright. We must find a better course,” Elrond said thoughtfully, “Perhaps we can enlist Galadriel’s aid…after all she got us into this tangle in the first place!”

“Celebrían cannot be so recklessly crossed, Elrond. What if she wilfully destroys whatever we have built and accomplished? We are at a stage where we can no longer afford more enemies. Celeborn grows increasingly hostile. This will be the last straw,” Erestor sighed, “We cannot confide in Galadriel.”

“Maybe we could talk to her in the morning and hope to make her see sense,” Elrond said angrily, “The gall of it!”

“Do you seriously think she will be persuaded out of it?” Erestor laughed bitterly, “She is of our line partially, not one of those simpering fools Glor beds. She has made her mind clear. It is all or nothing. Complete obedience to her wish, or total destruction.”

 

“Can we not persuade him, Ada?” Elros asked Maglor frightened as Maedhros pored over the maps relentlessly.

“To him it no longer matters to survive. He no longer cares. With him, it is all or nothing,” Maglor whispered, “The oath is all he breathes for. We must obey him or be destroyed.”

“Why?” Elrond asked softly, “What makes one so reckless?”

“There is a breaking point for every soul, mortal or immortal,” Maglor explained, “And when you reach there, you no longer fear or care.”

 

Elrond rubbed his forehead, Celebrían; it seemed, had reached her breaking point.

* * *

Elladan found himself once more in the mystical woods of his grandparents realm and he hated it. Elrohir was still recovering from his wounds and stayed close to Elrond, who was practically coddling him. Glorfindel and Mithrandir were talking spiritedly about their mutual acquaintances in Valinor. Elladan rolled his eyes; that Glorfindel could so merrily talk of his past in Aman with someone who shared his exile while he sulked if anyone born in Middle-Earth asked! 

“Deep thoughts?” Erestor’s voice broke into his musings. 

He turned to find Erestor riding on a brown mare. Elladan smiled, Erestor preferred black to white or brown. But since his stallion had died from frostbite after the rescue in the mountains, Erestor was forced to take a brown mare for the journey. While he never complained, Elladan could easily see the wistfulness in Erestor’s eyes whenever he looked upon Elrohir’s black mare.

“Surprised that I still think after all the time I have spent with Glorfindel?” Elladan enquired teasingly. 

“Certainly not!” Erestor smiled, “I am capable of thinking after all the time I have spent with him.”

“Ada,” Elladan said snidely as Erestor’s eyes moved to Elrohir’s mare once again, “You could always ask Gildor to get you another. He loves to spoil you.”

“I hadn’t known that my thoughts were that obvious. I will ask, the next time I see him,” Erestor sighed, “He seems to be wandering more and more in human lands. They say that the horses of the Rohirrim are quite magnificent.”

“Elrohir and I have been thinking of joining him on a longer journey through Rohan and Fangorn this year. Grandfather wishes us to stay in Lothlórien,” Elladan trailed off as Celeborn turned sharply and shot him a warning glare.

“I don’t think you will be persuaded to stay if you dislike that,” Erestor said seriously, “I had hoped that you would return to Imladris with us. But if you wish, we wouldn’t grudge you travelling. And it is safer to travel with Gildor than to travel with our own warriors. He knows the lands like the palm of his own hand.”

“Naneth told me that she wouldn’t be returning to Imladris any time soon,” Elladan continued bravely, “Is that why grandfather is angry?”

“Your grandfather is a wise elf. And a loving father. It is no wonder that he is angry with us or that he wants to take Celebrían and you to his home from Imladris,” Erestor sighed, “He wants the best for you.”

“We are of majority. He cannot expect us to obey him unquestioningly. I am still wondering why Naneth accepted the news of your true relationship to Ada Elrond with such grace,” Elladan asked tentatively, “It is not like her. She should have been most angry at the betrayal.”

“She…,” Erestor said in a shaky voice, “She was most kind-hearted and understanding. A wonderful woman who should never have suffered all this.”

 

Elrond smiled as Thranduil’s party rode into the clearing. He made his way down the talan to meet them. Thranduil was practically hovering about his son. This was the first time that Laiqua was out of Greenwood accompanying his father on a diplomatic mission. 

“He’s grown so much!” Elladan laughed as he strode forward to hold the reins of the young prince’s horse, “Well met, Ernil Thranduilion!”

Thranduil looked on anxiously as Laiqua returned Elladan’s greeting and jumped down gracefully before hugging Elladan.

“You are as tall as me,” Elladan remarked, “Though still as slender as before. Doesn’t your father share his venison with you?”

Laiqua laughed as Thranduil muttered a choice Sindarin curse before saying, “Elladan, keep an eye on him for me. I must see your parents and your grandfather.”

Elladan and Laiqua watched admiringly as Thranduil dismounted gracefully and swerved through the crowd to hurry to Galadriel’s side and helped her down from her mount. She looked slightly better than usual. Colour flushed her normally wan features. Greenwood had lifted a few lines from her face.

“Where is Elrohir?” Laiqua asked quietly, “Ada said that he was well enough to travel. How is he?”

“I will take you to him,” Elladan promised, “And are you out on patrol yet?”

“Elladan!” Gildor’s voice was cheery, “Keep an eye on the princeling. I am kidnapping his father to take him to that old goat Celeborn.”

“Gildor!” Elrond arrived, “You shouldn’t say that to his face if you want to leave Lothlórien alive! Celeborn is not in a Noldor-loving spirit these days.”

“What have you done?” Thranduil asked sternly even as he embraced Elrond, “Don’t tell me that the two of you have driven him mad.”

“I will tell you later,” Elrond smiled wanly before he turned to greet Galadriel, “You look well, My Lady! Greenwood has a most healing effect on tired souls, hasn’t it?”

“Indeed, Elrond!” Galadriel smiled, “Would you take care of Thranduil while I meet my husband?”

“We are coming there,” Thranduil laughed, “But I will allow half-an-hour of happy martial bliss before we barge in.”

“Ever so kind,” Galadriel raised her eyebrows before leaving hastily.

“Never understood why you put up with her, or how you manage to do that,” Elrond complained as he dragged Thranduil towards his talan.

“Where is Erestor?” Thranduil relaxed into Elrond’s hold and leant onto him, “I had expected him to be there to welcome me.”

“He is with ‘Bría,” Elrond hesitated, “He will come soon, Ernil-nîn. And Glorfindel and Mithrandir are with Elrohir.”

“What is wrong?” Thranduil pulled Elrond under a large, low-canopied tree, “Tell me.”

Elrond hesitated before taking a deep breath, “Elrohir has suffered much in that cave of torment. By the time Erestor and Glorfindel got to him, he had already been flayed, burnt, branded and you know, the rest,” he took Thranduil’s hand in his own and gripped it tightly, “I have rarely seen Erestor as frightened as he had been when he carried Elrohir into the valley…we spent days and nights by the child’s bedside.”

“I know…,” Thranduil squeezed Elrond’s fingers, “Galadriel. The state in which she was in when I got to her that day.”

“Yes,” Elrond murmured, “But I am sure that Elrohir was not sexually tormented. I am grateful for that. But the sheer physical pain and fear that he endured, I cannot imagine.”

“Elrond, what of ‘Bría?” Thranduil asked worriedly.

“A poison arrow in her arm. But she is healing fast. The venom lingers in her veins, according to Glorfindel, maybe she could come to Greenwood and take Thalion’s medicine,” Elrond suggested, “But more than that, she is pregnant again.”

“What?” Thranduil stepped back, “You didn’t? Elrond, ” he shook his head in bewilderment, “What is this?”

“Don’t ask me, Thranduil. Please don’t. It was a deal. That she would leave us to our sin if we gave her one child that was all hers,” Elrond whispered brokenly, “It was horrible to hear her speaking so coldly. But we agreed and gave in. You won’t understand, Thranduil, we did not even think twice about what to tell the twins.”

“Elbereth,” Thranduil looked pityingly at his friend of many centuries who was shaking slightly with suppressed emotion, “Elrond, what have you done?”

“I am not as noble as you are, Thranduil….and while it was difficult to persuade him, I managed. He still feels that he owes me his life,” Elrond inhaled deeply, “It is but one more sin in a list of many.”

“Elrond…,” Thranduil said urgently, “You must think of something to tell Celeborn! He will not forgive this!”

“I don’t know what to tell him,” Elrond shrugged, “And I don’t care. The marriage is over. The only thing that worries me is what to tell the twins.”

“Elrond, my dearest friend!” Thranduil groaned in despair, “Will you never stay out of trouble?”

“Never mind, how are things with you?” Elrond changed the topic quietly. He could see how affected Thranduil had become by his news.

Thranduil shook his head and embraced his friend silently. Elrond stiffened slightly, but then relaxed completely as he rested his head on his friend’s shoulder inhaling Thranduil’s distinctive scent. He could feel Thranduil’s head on his shoulder, Thranduil’s hands gripping him tightly. It was so like the days before the last alliance. When they had comforted and taken simple pleasure in each other. He ran his hands through Thranduil’s hair well aware that his friend had stayed away from the simplest of physical intimacies after Anoriel’s death. Thranduil shivered in his hold before sighing gratefully.

 

Galadriel’s smile faltered as she entered her husband’s talan. Celeborn was standing tensely near the balcony. On the couch were seated Celebrían and Erestor a few feet apart from each other. 

“Ah, my dearest wife,” Celeborn said sardonically as he turned and saw her, “Do see for yourself the end results of your fine plans.”

She stepped into the room and closed the door behind her before saying quizzically, “What is it, Celeborn? Where is Elrohir? I have not seen him yet.”

Erestor flashed her a warning look before returning to his dreary contemplation of the talan floor. Celebrían sat stony-faced as she watched her father pace angrily. Galadriel tried to think of what the latest argument between Erestor and Celeborn was.

“My daughter is pregnant,” Celeborn said quietly as he stopped to stand before Galadriel, so that their bodies were scant inches apart. His eyes were cold blue with anger, “And I daresay you were aware of it even before she herself realized, O wise lady of the mirror!”

“I knew nothing,” Galadriel said sharply. 

It was one thing to insult her before their daughter. She was too used to it to be bothered. But to insult her before her kin was something that she had never been able to bear lightly. Still losing her temper while Celeborn was in this mood would not do anyone good.

“Leave, ‘Bría. This is a matter between us,” Celeborn said harshly.

“I promise you, Celeborn,” she rephrased her sentence, “I did not know anything.”

“You left for Thranduil’s lands even when you were needed in Imladris at ‘Bría’s side!” Celeborn accused even as Celebrían and Erestor left the room. 

“It was your turn to stay with Thranduil. You forgot entirely. I went in your stead! And Elrond is far wiser than me in the healing arts!” Galadriel reminded him heatedly, “Why, Celeborn, can we not talk more civilly at least before others?”

“Galadriel,” he seemed to be trying to bring his wrath under control, “My daughter is pregnant again. And I shall not forgive this time. I want custody of the twins from now. I will not let them be corrupted by the rulers of Imladris.”

“That should be the decision of the twins, they are over age,” Galadriel rejoined calmly, “And Celebrían chose this. If the first time was lust, then this time it is vengeance. You cannot blame them.”

“Dare you accuse her of deliberately doing this?” Celeborn asked incredulously, “I cannot even believe that you would imply it!”

“Celeborn, think!,” Galadriel said exasperatedly, “They would never have even touched her in lust given their attraction to each other!”

“You say then that my daughter’s lust was responsible for this?” Celeborn raised an eyebrow coldly.

“I say that our child was not forced by them,” Galadriel said carefully, “Lust is not a sin, it is a part of our nature. Why do you use the word so hatefully as if you have never felt it?”

Celeborn turned abruptly from her saying, “Galadriel, why is that everyone lusts after those of your house? Is it yet another facet of your curse?”

“What?” Galadriel asked incredulously, “Celeborn, you are cruel this day. I understand that anything involving ‘Bría makes you immune to reason. But that is no excuse to speak so harshly.”

“It is the truth,” Celeborn stated baldly.

“That everyone lusts after my kin?” Galadriel bit her lips to control her temper, “Then what of Thranduil? Everyone lusted and many still lust after him!”

“Perhaps you are amongst their number,” he suggested coldly, “That may be the reason why you rushed to him while your child and grandchildren were fighting for their lives after the ordeal.”

She narrowed her eyes before saying quietly, “I would be more careful with my words if I were you. Perhaps you are right; I may be lusting after Thranduil indeed. After all, you should know the symptoms given that you have had them yourself a long time ago!”

“He’s as my son!” Celeborn said through clenched teeth, “My family is not as incestuous as yours is. No Sindar family is! Blood is honoured.”

She did not reply though she could have mentioned his past indiscretion with Thranduil. She had never been able to match his levels of deliberate cruelty.

“No answer?” he said derisively, “Indeed, what is there to say? If you had not made the mistake of marrying me, you could have continued whatever you had with your beloved cousins. After all, the only drawback they had was that they were insane!”

“Celeborn,” she spoke warningly, “Don’t you dare speak so of my cousins!”

“I remember Maedhros Fëanorion begging you to leave with them after the kinslaying in Doriath!” he sneered, “The way he was pleading with you, it was rather obvious that he had strong feelings for you!”

“Indeed,” she said sarcastically, “He had strong feelings for me. Which, as someone who suspects lust in every relationship, you would never understand. He was the head of our family then, and the greater fool I was to choose your fickle love over his self-sacrificing nature.”

“He was too addicted to self-sacrifice,” He remarked acidly, “That certainly explains why he hallowed the chasms of middle-earth with the flesh of Finwë! Suicide is an act of desperate cowards.”

“I don’t disagree,” she said calmly, “But I will not hear you speak so callously of my kin, dead or alive they be,” firmly she bowed before turning to leave.

“What about those who are neither dead nor alive?” he asked quietly. She stiffened before turning to face him again.

“Maglor is dead,” she said flatly as his blue eyes met hers challengingly.

“Indeed I would not debate that point with you,” he said gravely, “I meant Curufin’s son, Celebrimbor, your old friend, the one who made that ring for you.”

“Celeborn, if you wish to wound me, you could not have chosen a more painful topic,” she said quietly, “If you will continue, then I will have to choose between your scorn and the memories of my kin. It will change everything between us.”

He stared at her quietly before saying, “Celebrimbor has always harboured a secret attraction to you. Then it is no surprise that he was one of the orcs that delighted in taking you that fateful day in Greenwood. Saruman told me. That was why Elrond’s dreams stopped. He is now more orc than elf. What a fall for a mighty grandson of Fëanor.”

She parted her lips in a silent gasp of horror before averting her eyes to shield her turmoil from him, she knew instinctively that he spoke the truth. His blue eyes were laced with regret, pain and weary resignation. She clenched her hands tightly as the red rays of the sunset cast a brilliant shade of crimson on the skies. 

“Altáriel,” his voice was tired, “I cannot do this anymore. I cannot fight for you.”

“You want to cease fighting for us? For our love?” she asked wearily.

He shook his head confusedly, “I no longer know what our love meant to me.”

“Be it so then,” she said softly, “I will not beg you for this. I will never love anyone as much as I love you. But I will learn to live without your love, Prince Celeborn of Doriath.”

He watched stunned as the proud woman he had loved, wooed, married and lived with for millennia walked out away from him. The weary pride that sustained her now was but a shadow of the former fire that had burnt in her. But all the same, it reminded him of all the reasons why he could never stop loving her.

“Altáriel!” he ran after her and pulled her to him violently, “You cannot leave.”

She turned to face him, her chin upturned in defiance, her cold eyes held warning as she said quietly, “Release me, My Lord.”

“You will not ‘lord’ me,” he cursed as he grabbed her neck and forced her lips to his passionately, “Not after wrecking my life and my family! Not after what you have reduced me to!”

She tried to pull away from him, her eyes blazing in fiendish fury as she fought him off. Celeborn had always been a gentle lover, but the events of the day caught up with him; his daughter’s condition, Saruman’s tidings and finally Galadriel’s defiance.

She managed to twist underneath his shoulder and managed to move away unsteadily. But she still stared at him coldly spurring him into greater fury as he slapped her for the first time in their lives together. She gasped and staggered backwards before striking his face with both her hands. He grabbed her wrists and twisted them to her sides. 

She no longer resisted as she hung limply in his arms. But her eyes looked upon him with cold scorn as she had once looked upon Isildur. His fingers dug into her wrists making her bite her lips in pain.

“Elbereth!” Thranduil’s voice cut in, “I thought you two would have finished.”

“We are getting finished,” Celeborn hastily released her arms and stood away, raking his fingers through his dishevelled hair. 

Thranduil and Elrond watched with mild concern as Galadriel staggered unsteadily before drawing herself to her full height. Celeborn cleared his throat before slumping onto the couch. 

“We are finished,” she said hoarsely, her eyes shining with determination, “If you two could care to be our witnesses. It is rather fitting, isn’t it? We took our vows before Elu Thingol and Oropher. Now we end the vows before their descendants.”

“Galadriel?” Thranduil stepped forwards with increasing worry, “Did you have one of your spats?”

“The last,” she said quietly, “I will not delay us all anymore. It is almost time for the council dinner.”

“Altáriel,” Celeborn dropped his head into his hands remorsefully, “We must talk.”

“Call me never by that name,” she said in a shaken voice, “In the name of Eru, I renounce my vows to you, Prince Celeborn of Doriath. I set you free to love another, to marry another. My mind is pure; I will never have a claim on your heart unlike Míriel Serindë had on Finwë’s. I set you free,” she braced herself on the wall behind her as a convulsion took her. 

Thranduil looked across at Elrond who rushed to her side and pulled her to the couch. She shook her head firmly and struggled to her feet whispering, “Let me leave. I need to be alone.”

Celeborn said brokenly, his eyes red, “You will regret this.”

“Both of us will,” she smiled faintly, her eyes glimmering with unshed tears.

“Elrond, take her out of the room,” Thranduil pressed his hands to his throbbing temples as he took charge.

After they left, he turned to face Celeborn. The silver tree had buried his face in his hands. Thranduil sighed before crouching before his father’s cousin on his knees and placing his palms on Celeborn’s legs.

“She really ended our marriage,” Celeborn asked the world in general, “I suppose that leaves me free to sail west.”

“Will an ended marriage end your love?” Thranduil asked with the barest trace of bitterness, “Anoriel ended our marriage. But I don’t think she stopped loving me all of a sudden then.”

“Loving women is so difficult,” Celeborn said angrily as he massaged his forehead, “Look at Glorfindel, you, me...”

“Loving males is not easier,” Thranduil said pensively, “As all of us should know by now from Elrond.”

“What will I do?” Celeborn asked despairingly, “I have been married for millennia. And all of a sudden I find myself alone truly.”

“It is too late to salvage that,” Thranduil pulled Celeborn to his feet, “Let us get ready for the council. Sauron shall pay for all that he has done to us.”

 

Elrond sat a dazed Galadriel down on a stiff-backed chair in his talan. Erestor was pressing her to drink a sip of wine worried by her pallor. Elladan and Elrohir were trying to cool her brow with damp cloth.

“What is it?” Erestor asked Elrond alarmed, “They were about to quarrel when I left them a while earlier.”

“They quarrelled. And I believe Celeborn was very forceful,” Elrond shrugged sadly, “Ultimately she renounced her wedding vows calling upon Thranduil and me as witnesses. And what is more, her wish was granted by the Valar. She is no longer bonded to him.”

“Elrond!” Erestor fell to his knees before Galadriel and took her limp hands in his own, “What have you done, Galadriel?”

“I cannot drag him down with me at the end. My conscience could never bear that,” she whispered as she clenched her hands tightly in his. 

“Elbereth,” Erestor said wearily, “I have no idea what to say.”

“There is a silver lining in the dark, my nephew,” Galadriel smiled wanly, “That he did not renounce his vows…he will, but he didn’t do it immediately after me. So he still loves me in his own way.”

“That deduction,” Elrond said flatly as he wrapped a blanket around her, “Will certainly help you both in the future. Oh, Galadriel, I really could wring you to death. Not only have you messed up our lives, but also your own.”

“You should actually be happy that my life is a mess. After all it has been a Valar-sent revenge for what I have done to you,” Galadriel murmured quietly, as she stared out of the window, clutching the blanket pensively.

 

“’Dan,” Elrohir said quietly as they left the room, “It frightens me.”

“You have my pleasant company,” Elladan sighed, “I am scared too. Till today I had always considered them the perfect example of martial union. I once considered Thranduil and Anoriel as the best couple. Now both the marriages are broken.”

“Ada Elrond’s marriage to Naneth is also broken,” Elrohir smiled faintly, “Though I feel that both of them would have celebrated it if possible. They are quite happy.”

“I think we should stay out of love…it doesn’t sound too enticing what with all the end results we have so far seen,” Elladan muttered even as a clear voice rose in song in the gardens below them.

“Laiqua!,” Elladan gasped as the young prince of Greenwood swung into the room as easily as if the wind had borne him in.

“I am bored,” Laiqua said shrugging as he reached for the apple on the dresser, “And Ada’s talking with Celeborn. Galadriel is missing. Gildor is with a lover. I am bored….”

“Well,” Elrohir patted his much younger friend’s arm sympathetically, “I can remedy that. Didn’t you say this morning that you had a mission in Lothlórien?”

Laiqua rubbed his hands together in maniacal glee before asking, “You will help me?”

“Both of us will,” Elladan said laughing, “We need severe distraction from a lot of recent revelations.”

“What is your mission?” Elrohir asked smirking, “Going to find an instructor in the arts of bed? Your father, according to Gildor, did that before he was even half-way near majority. I don’t think you will have trouble finding a lover with you illustrious father’s legacy!”

“Well,” Laiqua tossed his hair smugly, “I will have prospective lovers queued up outside my father’s palace, with his legacy! But my mission is different.”

He waited until the twins concentrated completely on the conversation. Then he took a deep breath saying, “I mean to snare a good lover for my father.”

“You mean to say that you want to snare your father into a good lover’s trap?” Elladan wondered if the day could go worse than this as he covered his twin’s gaping mouth with his hand.

“Well, putting it that way makes my actions rather criminal. But yes. I want to find a lover who can attract my father and give him some comfort…”Laiqua trailed off thoughtfully, “I have been looking for suitable contenders since morning.”

“What makes you think Thranduil wants ‘some comfort’ from a lover that his mad son sets him up with?” Elladan asked even as Elrohir poured himself a large goblet of ale and downed it in one go.

“You promised me your aid,” Laiqua shrugged as he drew out a lengthy scroll from the bosom of his tunic, “This is the list. We must investigate them all and pick one.”

“You are determined to get us killed by sunset,” Elrohir sighed as he took the list from the prince’s hands.

* * *

Mithrandir hurried to his superior’s side and bowed respectfully. 

“My lords and ladies, this is the leader of my order,” he said to the assembled Sindarin and Noldorin leaders, “Lord Saruman the Wise of Isengard.”

“Welcome to Lothlórien,” Celeborn said politely before extending his hand to the revered guest and leading him to a seat of honour beside the Silver Tree at the head of the table, “Celeborn of Doriath at your service. And,” he paused as he gestured to Galadriel who was seated as usual to his right, “Lady Galadriel.”

“Honoured, My Lord Celeborn,” Saruman smiled gently before taking Galadriel’s hand in both of his and brushing it lightly with his lips, “And you, My Lady, much have I heard of the famed daughter of High-King Finarfin, granddaughter of Finwë.”

“Birth does not make a person what he or she is,” Glorfindel remarked as he took the seat next to Galadriel.

“Lord Glorfindel the reborn!” Saruman smiled, “I have always wanted to meet you. You are right, of course. Birth did not make you a hero, on the contrary, death did.”

Glorfindel stared at him stunned. Celeborn cleared his throat and leant back in his chair. Mithrandir, who had been sitting next to Saruman coughed quietly.

“He was a hero throughout his first life and his bravery culminated in the most worthy sacrifice ever in the history of the Noldor,” Erestor leant forward from his position between Glorfindel and Thranduil.

Elrond seated between Mithrandir and Gildor said firmly, “His renewed life has been equally valiant,” he raised his goblet in silent toast. 

Celeborn did the same saying, “Lord Saruman, let me welcome you to the White Council in my stead as the host. All the elven leaders except for Lord Círdan have arrived.”

“I am extremely glad to meet the greatest elves of our times,” Saruman raised his goblet and bowed apologetically to Glorfindel, “I never meant any offence to the Golden Lord of Gondolin, of course. My words are coarser than those of the elves. Pray, forgive me that.”

Glorfindel smiled saying, “No offence taken. Of course.”

“As someone who is always offending others, he has no cause for complaint, have you, Glorfindel?” Thranduil cut in good-humouredly restoring the guests to their light conversation.

“You are always doing this,” Erestor muttered under his breath to the king of Greenwood.

“Doing what?” Thranduil snatched a slice of the plum pie from Erestor neatly, “The pie?”

“That too,” Erestor conceded as he helped himself to another slice from the tray, “I meant that you are always defusing tense situations at many a council.”

“Well,” Thranduil smiled smugly as he helped himself to the oysters that Círdan had sent, “I must say that it’s because of my friends’ tendency to get into trouble incessantly.”

“Ada,” Laiqua, who was sitting next to Gildor, leant forward, “You never told me that story about Círdan and the oysters.”

Thranduil glared at him before returning to his conversation with Erestor resolutely. 

Celeborn said thoughtfully, “Ernil Laiqua, I believe I can tell you that tale….,” Thranduil growled, “Of course, with your father’s permission. After all he was one of the two main actors in the tale, wasn’t he now?”

“Celeborn,” Thranduil picked up his spoon and waved it warningly, “My son doesn’t really need to hear your exaggerated stories of my past.”

“I cannot believe that any exaggeration will far vary from the truth in your case, Thranduil,” Elrond remarked even as the rest of the audience laughed.

 

Saruman watched intently as the elven leaders began moving towards the entertainment. Minstrels were singing in the background and the clearing was lit by soft candles. A few of the younger elves were already dancing.

“Who is that extremely handsome, young elf in the light blue tunic?” Saruman asked as his eyes fastened on a trio of young elves standing by the minstrels’ corner.

“Laiqualassë Thranduilion. King Thranduil’s only child,” Mithandir informed him promptly, “A wise child, though mischievous enough. Spoilt to the hilt he is! And most doted upon by his father.”

“The twins are Elrond’s, right?” Saruman asked quietly, “They resemble their father so, the dignified bearing and the mien. But the prince does not resemble Thranduil. He looks more ethereal than the king.”

“Laiqua takes after Oropher, his grandsire,” Mithrandir said, “According to their lore, Thranduil is a special case. We cannot underestimate him.”

“Yes,” Saruman nodded, “And we have greatly overestimated Galadriel, my friend. She is dying on her feet. We cannot count on her help too much.”

“She has always endured,” Mithrandir murmured, looking to where Galadriel was talking earnestly to Gildor.

“A dance, Mithrandir?” Thranduil came up to them with a smile on his lips. His dark green robes set off his handsome golden features and emerald eyes to a great advantage.

“Certainly not,” Mithrandir huffed, “Go, dance with your son as you always do…”

“He doesn’t love dancing any more than my father did,” Thranduil shrugged as he turned to watch the dancers. 

Elrond walked over to them and asked Mithrandir, “Have you seen Celeborn?”

“Not after the dinner,” Mithrandir said lightly, “He must be with his daughter.”

“The famed beauty of Celebrían has reached even my ears, Lord Elrond,” Saruman smiled, “I hope to see her soon.”

Thranduil smirked subtly before turning to watch the dancers once more. Elrond smiled politely at Saruman who was obviously still under the impression that Elrond Peredhel and Celebrían were happily married.

“Come dance with me, Elrond,” Thranduil leant back against a tree watching the young elves twirling about giddily. Laiqua and the twins were still conversing in whispers at the other end. Elrond frowned at the sight, what were they so intently talking about?

“Go find Erestor. He will be most interested in the offer as he always complains that nobody can dance as well as you can,” Elrond shooed Thranduil away as he noticed Gildor furtively talking to a human. He gathered his robes and made his way down the slope towards them.

As Elrond reached the clearing, the human walked away leaving Gildor alone. 

“Who was it?” Elrond queried concernedly as Gildor sighed.

“A Númenorean. He brings news of orcs in the southern forests. And wraiths,” Gildor turned to face Elrond, “I hope all this wining and dining gets some real work done at the end.”

“Saruman is a stickler for discussions than for action,” Elrond conceded, “But Mithrandir stands loyal to our cause: destruction of Dol Guldur.”

Gildor sighed again and crooked his arm through Elrond’s as they walked together to the celebrations again. The dance floor was surrounded by a lusty crowd who were cheering enthusiastically. 

“I take it Thranduil has taken to the floor,” Elrond whispered as he led Gildor to the frontlines. 

 

Saruman watched intently as the two elven lords stepped onto the dance floor. Thranduil was directing the minstrels to play something special. They nodded enthusiastically as they began to play a deep, low, haunting tune.

“That is not the lay of Lúthien, is it?” Saruman asked his fellow wizard who stood by him.

“It is an old lay, dating back to the Awakening when the elves were more unrestrained and wild,” Mithrandir said quietly, “It is rarely sung in these times.”

They watched as Thranduil executed a sharp, flawless bow and presented his hand to Erestor, who accepted it gracefully. For a moment they stared at one another before releasing their joined hands and starting to dance. Saruman had never seen anything as passionately executed as this dance. He gripped his goblet tightly as they twirled about, dancing out of each other’s reach.

“It is a huntsman’s chase,” Elrond who had joined the wizards in the front row explained, “The dance requires rather sharp reflexes. Each time you lag, you are designated prey. And the dancing partner becomes the hunter. In those early times, these dances were often used to settle claims on a lady’s affections.”

“It must have been much better than duelling,” Saruman nodded as Erestor escaped touching Thranduil’s robes by a bare inch, “But all the same, the dance seems to be passionate…Instead of a lady’s affections, it seems to be domination that is the basic factor behind the dance.”

“Domination….,” Elrond said thoughtfully as they watched the green robes of Thranduil contrast with the deep blue ones of Erestor, “You are right, of course. The dance was intended as a competition between rivals for a woman. But I have heard tales of warrior’s comfort; particularly in the Sindar strongholds of Doriath.”

“I take it that today’s performance has nothing to do with a lady,” Saruman murmured, “And nothing to do with warrior’s comfort.”

“That is true,” Mithrandir cut in, “They are both bereaved and still in mourning.”

“A pity, that,” Saruman said good-naturedly, “They are too handsome to be allowed to grieve alone.”

 

Laiqua watched admiringly as his father swerved out of Erestor’s reach once more with practised ease. Now both the dancers were sweating slightly and their breathing had become harsh.

“Ada Erestor won’t give in,” Elladan muttered, “And neither will Thranduil..How long will they keep it up?”

“Ada’s defences are slower,” Laiqua pointed out, “If Erestor can take a chance, he might win.”

“Taking chances is more Ada Elrond’s or Glorfindel’s style,” Elrohir observed, “Ada Erestor has never chosen chance over strategy.”

“I am sure that---,” Laiqua stopped when his father suddenly pressed the entire length of his body to Erestor’s, “That is not a part of the dance, is it?”

“No,” Elladan murmured as the watching crowd began to whisper excitedly. 

Thranduil smiled lazily before stepping back and saying, “I had a wonderful time, My Lord Erestor. But knowing you as well as I do, I saw no outright win possible for both of us this time. So let us leave the floor to the youngsters and bow out.”

Erestor shook his head saying teasingly, “Say that you are growing too old for this, my friend. And less suited with each passing year for such wild pursuits.”

“My dearest ‘Restor,” Thranduil pulled the unsuspecting Erestor to him deftly and pressed a languorous kiss on the stunned lips, “Thranduil Oropherion is ever unpredictable.”

“Ada!” Laiqua groaned as he slapped a hand to his forehead, “You have spoilt half my plans!”

“I told you,” Elrohir said righteously as Thranduil broke apart and chuckled at Erestor’s baffled, yet, furious expression, “Your father doesn’t need your esteemed aid to find him a lover. If he wants one, he is quite capable of getting one!”

Erestor’s stern visage faded into one of mirth as he took up Thranduil’s hand and brushed it with his lips sensually. Laiqua pursed his lips as a now laughing pair of Erestor and Thranduil made their way to an amused Elrond who was trying his best to look scandalized and failing miserably.

“Let’s face it,” Elladan said wisely, “None of the elves here will dare approach your father with that intent. Haldir was the most courageous of them, but he is with my mother now.”

“Gildor still has an attraction for Ada,” Laiqua remarked, “Glorfindel too…”

“No,” Elrohir said firmly, “They won’t place lust above friendship, none of them that fought together in the last alliance will do that.”

“Ada and Lord Elrond were lovers,” Laiqua persisted even as he noticed Elrond and Erestor leaving quietly. Thranduil wandered off to Gildor’s side.

“But with Thranduil, Ada Elrond and Ada Erestor, there are deeper ties,” Elrohir said quietly, “Give it up, Laiqua.”

“I have an idea,” Laiqua said thoughtfully as Saruman and Mithrandir made their way towards the three conspirators.

“I don’t look forward to hearing that!” Elladan demurred hastily.

“My Lord Saruman, Mithrandir,” Laiqua smiled with all the force of his royal charm. 

“Prince Thranduilion,” Saruman nodded cordially, “Why are you not dancing, young friends? It is the time for you to rejoice and make merry!”

“I cannot dance with anyone unless they ask my father for explicit permission,” Laiqua gave a charming blush, “And not many dare approach him.”

“Not even the twin sons of Elrond?” Mithrandir raised an eyebrow suspiciously.

“The prize is not worth the effort, Mithrandir,” Elladan said wryly, even as he wondered what the devious prince was upto now.

“Elladan!” Laiqua looked very hurt by the comment and then glanced up hopefully at Saruman once again, “Would you ask him, please, My Lord? Surely my father will not oppose you.”

“Saruman,” Mithrandir began, but Saruman smiled gently at the young prince and walked towards Thranduil, who was still talking with Gildor, “The prince is not of majority,” Mithrandir finished anyway.

“Young princeling,” Elladan said huffily, “If you think for a moment that the old wizard can attract your father…”

“What?” Mithrandir spluttered indignantly, “You are trying to make him enter an arrangement with your father?”

“I am merely giving my father a chance to converse with a venerable wizard,” Laiqua said snootily.

 

Thranduil felt that this was one of the most trying conversations he had in life.

“I hope that you will not think me presumptuous if I were to dance with your son,” Saruman said with genuine sincerity.

“With Laiqua?” Thranduil threw a concerned glance at his only son, who seemed to be still talking with the Peredhel twins, “He is too young to be dancing with someone outside his own family.”

Saruman turned to watch the prince, who was still talking with Mithrandir earnestly, though a smile lit his handsome features with triumphant victory, “I did not know. He seemed most eager.”

“I will ask him to apologize,” Thranduil said firmly, “He should know better than to treat anyone thus!”

“No, no,” Saruman said smiling, “He is a charming young elf, though I would not care to be at the end of his mischief again.”

Thranduil smiled apologetically and said, “If you would grace me with a dance, I will endeavour to make up for my son’s folly.”

“I would be delighted to, perhaps another time,” Saruman laughed, his soft voice flowing like music, “For now, I will settle for your conversation, My King Thranduil.”

Thranduil nodded obligingly, there was a difference between the coarse, honest nature of Mithrandir and the softer, sophisticated mien of Saruman. Thranduil had always enjoyed bantering with Mithrandir; but he found that he enjoyed Saruman’s cultured conversation and melodious voice also. The wizard reminded him of Oropher, the austere features, the politeness, the sincerity and the soft tones.

 

Erestor sighed as he entered Galadriel’s chamber and found her standing vacant-eyed beside the window.

“Would you take my advice and come with us to Imladris awhile?” he asked knowing well the answer anyway.

“No,” she said firmly, “I will stay here. I cannot let anyone think I am weak.”

“Even if you are,” Erestor cut in.

“Use your fabled skills tomorrow at the council, not with a weary soul like me,” she said briskly as she turned to face him, she smiled grimly as she noticed the determination in his dark eyes. He had drawn himself upright, his lithe, slender figure taut in defence.

“My Lady Galadriel,” he said quietly, “I married Gil-Galad because Elrond tricked us fearing you. I put up with your meddling in Elrond’s marriage. I forgave you for not telling me that you had foreseen Gil’s death in Mordor. I came back broken and you broke me further when you sang that song. It was our search for you that ended up in my folly with ‘Bría. A list of all that I have lost and suffered can ultimately be traced back to you,” he sighed deeply, “But, even now, I hold no grudge. Take my counsel, and come with us to Imladris for a time.”

“Celebrimbor is not dead,” she said quietly.

“I know,” he murmured, “I thought he might have been experimented upon, they might have broken him into a goblin or a creature far worse.”

“He was one of the orcs that so cruelly tortured me,” she pressed a hand on the window sill.

“Galadriel,” he drew nearer hesitantly, “You must forget that. And stay strong. We need to destroy Dol Guldur and kill Sauron.”

“Will you sail if we destroy him completely this time?” Galadriel asked pensively.

“Not unless Elrond sails,” he smiled wanly, “I thought that was obvious.”

She sighed as she noticed the dark shadows in his eyes. She had seen them in Thranduil too. They were all slowly succumbing to hopelessness. Even Glorfindel, who had always been the most optimistic amongst them. She straightened herself and faced him regally. 

“Erestor,” she said simply, “Once Dol Guldur is destroyed, I shall travel with you to Imladris. I would love to spend time with my grandchildren, of course.”

 

Laiqua strode into his father’s chambers that night brimming with disappointment. Thranduil chuckled as he pulled his son down to the couch beside him and imitated his sullen pout.

“It’s not so funny, Ada,” the prince sighed, “I tried so hard to get you a lover and you ended up having a discussion on horsebreeding with him!”

“Excuse me,” Thranduil doubled up in incredulous laughter, “Did you really mean to say that you sent him to me with that in mind?”

“He was handsome enough, cultured, well-spoken and noble,” Laiqua said firmly.

“You will forgive me if I don’t find bearded wizards irresistible however handsome they are,” Thranduil chortled, “Oh, Laiqua!”

“I thought you had sufficiently loosened up after the performance with Erestor,” Laiqua complained as he watched his father stretch himself with feline grace on the couch.

“You are priceless, ion-nîn,” Thranduil said with mock solemnity, “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

 

Elrond knocked on the door before entering, Celebrían seemed exhausted as she rose to meet him with a wry smile.

“Are you well?” he advanced to take her hand and lead her back to the couch.

“Why cannot you just hate me?” she murmured sadly as she looked out of the window to the gardens where Elrohir was kissing a young maid from Lothlórien.

Elrond followed her glance and said quietly, “That is one of the reasons, of course. They are the greatest gifts you gave me.”

“Elrond,” she smiled sadly as she squeezed his hand before moving it to her stomach where life grew again, “There are days when I beg the Valar that we could have been a loving couple. At least that you had tried to love me. I could have learnt to love you. Perhaps at some point, I have loved you.”

“How could I have done that when he was ever before my eyes?” Elrond shook his head helplessly as he closed his eyes sensing the life under his fingers, “It was too late, ‘Bría. I lost my heart centuries ago during the first sunset we watched together, even before my cousin had proposed to him.”

“I can never hate you both…,” she sighed, “I still have deeper feelings for you than for my own children. It’s pathetic.”

“The fault is not yours,” he smiled bitterly, “Trust me. I know that particular guilty feeling well. I want you to know that you can always call upon me anytime whatever the situation is. My sword, my advice and my skills are always at your disposal.”

“And I will always be indebted to your forgiveness, your aid and your unconditional respect and acceptance of all that I have done,” she said sincerely, “Our marriage might not have been as hallowed by love as Thranduil’s or my parents’ had been. But I am glad that it ends on far better terms!”

 

Saruman looked over the city of Caras Galadhon from his balcony and sighed. The elves seemed to be weak despite Mithrandir’s assurances of hope. He knew that he had to act quickly if he had to save as much as he could from Sauron’s fury. Perhaps he should take up his own line of actions in private. Except for Gildor Inglorion’s wandering elves, none of the elven leaders seemed to be much close to Gondor or Rohan. He thanked his instincts that had made him choose Isengard as his abode. At least he knew what happened in the kingdoms of men.

Thranduil Oropherion, he decided, knew much of the matters of the east. And he had no qualms about stooping to lower standards to get information. Saruman approved of that. Galadriel seemed to be powerful, yet weakening. And Celeborn seemed to be less inclined to fight again. Círdan, Saruman knew well, had sworn off war. The lords of Imladris, he did not know well. But Mithrandir had an excellent opinion of them. Saruman decided to watch them keenly the next day at council.

 

She was still staring into the embers of the dying fire in the hearth when a form leapt in lightly through the window and settled languidly on her large, cold bed.

“Thranduil,” she smiled shaking her head, “And what brings you here?”

“A need to sleep,” he confessed, “And someone to keep me company.”

“Ever at your service,” she laughed softly as she crept under the covers beside him and twirled his unbound hair, “Good night, Ernil-nîn.”

“Goodnight, Galadriel,” the voice was already heavy with drowsiness. 

She remained awake a long time after he drifted into reverie thinking of the day. She did not need to even stir from her room to know that Celeborn was drowning himself in drink in the next talan.

If she had still believed in the Valar in the least, she might have appealed to them to watch over him.

* * *

“And I propose that we bring down Dol Guldur while we can,” Mithrandir summed up his observations firmly.

“I second you,” Thranduil leant forward, “Greenwood will see this done at whatever cost to us.”

“And Imladris pledges its blood and sword to Greenwood’s cause,” Erestor said quietly, his eyes meeting Thranduil’s green ones in mutual understanding.

Saruman nodded to himself, the two elven lords could mindspeak with each other. And they were in concord perfectly. 

“Lothlórien shall aid this cause,” Celeborn glanced across at Galadriel uncertainly.

“And I pledge my support to the Lord of Lothlórien,” she said resolutely meeting the wide blue eyes of her former husband.

“And so shall the Wandering Company and the Havens,” Gildor said grimly.

Saruman said quietly, “I have never chosen war over negotiations. But in this situation, we must act. I hope that the Valar aid our just cause.”

Celeborn raised his goblet saying determinedly, “May Valar guide us.”

Mithrandir and Saruman toasted the cause. But Gildor glanced anxiously at Galadriel before raising his goblet half-heartedly. Thranduil lifted his goblet but did not sip, showing his long experience with diplomacy. Galadriel did not even move her hands towards the goblet, her eyes cold.

Erestor lifted his goblet saying tactfully, “To victory, of course.”

Galadriel smiled and lifted her goblet in acquiescence and the tension at the table was dissolved.

 

“Ada,” Elladan entered the room where Elrond and Erestor were talking softly poring over a large map of the southern fastness they were about to attack.

“Yes, Elladan,” Elrond greeted him with a gentle smile, “What news from the latest conspiracy that the prince has hatched to trap his unwary father into a love affair?”

“Laiqua has not yet come up with anything new,” Elladan smiled relaxing under Elrond’s gentle teasing, “Ada, I wanted to talk about the war you are going to fight in.”

“Indeed,” Erestor looked up from his battleplans and measured Elladan carefully, “What of that?”

“I wish to fight with our army,” Elladan said sincerely, yet resolutely, though his heart ached when he saw the expression of disapproving anxiety on Elrond’s features. He looked across at Erestor for some support, but the chief-counsellor’s face was dark with suppressed fears.

“You are too young,” Elrond said promptly.

“I am older than Ada Erestor was when he fought in Eregion,” Elladan reminded them innocently.

“I had no choice,” Erestor said curtly, “My bonded-mate,” he glanced apologetically at Elrond who shrugged, “Was not able to go and I had to lead our armies in his stead. It was my duty.”

“And it is my duty now as the heir of Imladris,” Elladan said firmly, “I am experienced enough and I promise not to stray to the thick of fighting or to the frontlines. The day will come when it shall be my duty to raise my sword in Imladris’s name.”

“Not while we breathe,” Elrond said grimly, “You are not fighting in this war, ion-nîn. That is determined. If you persist, I shall send you to Círdan or better yet, leave you with your grandfather, who will not be fighting with us.”

Elladan paled slightly at the second threat but said quietly, “I need to fight.”

“This is not about duty, is it?” Erestor sighed, “It is about Elrohir and what happened to him on the mountains.”

“Yes,” Elladan admitted in a tight voice, “I need revenge. On the foul creatures who treated him so. It was the worst day in my life when I saw him carried back insensible and half-dead.”

“I know,” Erestor came to stand before him, placing a hand on his shoulder, “I was the one who brought him. I have never been as scared in my life as I had been when I rode with his limp form back to Imladris.”

“Then you will know how much I need to fight them,” Elladan said quietly.

“I know how much Elrond and I will grieve should you be wounded in the least,” Erestor said in a low voice, “Please, Elladan, for our sakes.”

“I am sorry,” Elladan shook his head blinking back rebellious tears as he saw Erestor’s face crumple, “I would never wilfully hurt you or Ada Elrond. But I need to do this. I can never forget his bloodied, limp form when you carried him back to Imladris. I am of majority, I can always fight under Gildor even if you should not let me fight under the banners of Imladris. But I need to fight.”

“Elladan,” Elrond said quietly as Erestor averted his face abruptly, “Please. We have borne the fruits of war more than you can guess. Would you deliberately step onto the battlefield knowing how that would haunt us?”

“I promise to be careful, to take no unnecessary risks,” Elladan said resolutely, “But I shall fight.”

 

“Ada,” Laiqua entered his father’s rooms, “Elladan and Elrohir are both fighting.”

“I heard Elladan is going to fight. Elrohir?” Thranduil arched an eyebrow as he rose slightly from the bath he had been indulging in.

“Elrohir asked Gildor directly. And Gildor allowed him to ride with the wandering company,” Laiqua shrugged, “Anyway they are both fighting.”

“I see,” Thranduil stretched his limbs languidly, “Well, kind of you to serve as my gossip source.”

“Ada,” Laiqua settled himself on the ledge of the bathing vessel and tapped his fingers impatiently against the wood, “I meant that I wish to fight alongside them.”

Thranduil swallowed a mouthful of the bath water as he practically gaped at his son. Laiqua concernedly tapped his back as he spat out the water. Thranduil pulled a towel and jumped out of the vessel. Laiqua smiled at his father’s strong, taut body glistening golden with water drops. 

“Ada,” Laiqua handed a robe to his father, who was staring stunned at him, “You are dripping onto the floor.”

“Leafling, what exactly did you say?” Thranduil pulled the robe loosely about himself and tied it close, “Did I hear you saying that you wanted to fight?”

“I did say that,” Laiqua said quietly, meeting his father’s wild green eyes with firm conviction.

“I will have no qualms putting you in a cave and sealing it shut until the war is over if you ever dare make such a suggestion before your majority, Ernil Laiqua,” Thranduil promised grimly.

“Ada,” Laiqua began, “You fought in skirmishes and on patrol much before you were my age.”

“Don’t you dare, Laiqua,” Thranduil’s voice was forbidding and harsh, “I want you to stay back with Thalion. And you have no choice. You are not of majority. I will not let you step onto a battlefield before that.”

“My mother died because she had not learnt to defend herself,” Laiqua said quietly.

Thranduil’s eyes flashed in fury and pain before he said in a tight voice, “Do you think I need to be reminded of that when each moment I mourn her?”

Laiqua had never seen his father like this. He shuddered slightly but decided to plough on bravely. He was determined to fight alongside the twins. He met Thranduil’s powerful glare resolutely. He was not going to let Thranduil win this staring match.

“Laiqua,” Thranduil averted his eyes wearily, “I will let you accompany us if you promise not to stir from my side in battle. Elbereth keep you safe. Laiqua, know that I live for you.”

“I will be all right,” Laiqua promised, “I will always return to you, Ada, whatever happens. We shall never be parted.”

“No,” Thranduil sighed, “That is a promise that not even immortals can make and hold to.”

 

Galadriel watched as the armies of Imladris and Lothlórien left the borders of Caras Galadhon. Celeborn stood beside her as etiquette commanded. 

“Elladan and Elrohir are too young,” he sighed to himself as he saw the twins riding under the banners of the Wandering Company accompanied by Gildor. 

Elrond and Erestor were leading the regiments of Imladris as they once had led Gil-Galad’s army to Eregion and Celebrimbor’s subjects back to Imladris. Glorfindel was probably already on the scouting missions, scouring the lands with his methodical proficiency. The archers of Lothlórien were once more fighting under Thranduil, they still remembered the capable leader that he had been during the massacre in Mordor.

“Laiqua Thranduilion is far younger and still not of majority,” Saruman remarked, “I felt ill at ease seeing him in armour.”

“Yes,” Celeborn said sadly, “If we are so affected, think of how Thranduil must be feeling,” he closed his eyes, “So did Oropher grieve when Thranduil rode out for the first time. There are days when I am glad that I don’t have a son. Seeing my grandsons ride out is too hard on me as it is.”

“My Lady, it must be affecting you more than it does us,” Saruman said apologetically, “I am sad that you had to be present here today. Lady Celebrían refused to see her sons riding off for war.”

“I don’t have that choice,” Galadriel smiled bitterly as the last archer disappeared across the plains, “I have never had the choice. I have seen off my brothers, cousins, nephews and husband to war more number of times than I care to count. And it seems to be my lot to see off my grandsons to carnage and massacre now.”

She left abruptly, her pale blue dress trailing behind her. Celeborn watched her leave, his blue eyes clouded in turmoil, a pain numbing him still. He wanted to follow her and hold her close in his arms, shielding her against the cruel world. But it was no longer his right.

 

Elrond glanced uneasily at Erestor, who had not yet fallen into his usual cold battle-field mask. Erestor was worried more than he even let show and that was sending apprehensive shivers down Elrond’s marrow. 

“I will be fine,” Erestor murmured almost mechanically as he felt rather than saw Elrond’s stare.

“You know that Gildor is the best in managing new soldiers,” Elrond said quietly, “I fought my first skirmish under him.”

“I fought under Glor,” Erestor sighed, “But I know Gildor is an excellent leader on the battlefield. His casualty record is far less than any of ours. Still I cannot help being worried about the children. They are too young. As is Laiqua. What was Thranduil thinking, letting him into the ranks?” 

“He was right,” Elrond sighed, “If he had not allowed Laiqua to ride with him, the princeling will have ridden under Gildor. Laiqua is as stubborn as Oropher and twice as wilful when it comes to getting his own way.”

 

Thranduil sighed in exasperation as Thalion brought before him thirteen grimy dwarves. He really had no time for this now.

“Yes?” he said more sharply than he had intended to, “What brings you in my lands without escort or permit?”

“I am Thorin Oakenshield,” the leader spoke boldly, “And we are going east to reclaim the Lonely Mountain and the mines of our ancestors.”

Thranduil massaged his throbbing head and said disbelievingly, “What makes you assume that the thirteen of you can do that alone without army or counsel? Do you bring any message from Moria? If so, I could assist you after a few weeks. Right now, we are pressed for warriors as we have been holding a siege in the south.”

“We must go now,” the dwarf said proudly, “We will not share our treasure with you, Elf-King. We need not your warriors or your counsel.”

“It is suicide to go there,” Thranduil sighed, “But when was there ever reasoning with a determined dwarf? If you will wait, I might be able to help you. I knew Lord Durin of Moria, your forefather. And I am proud that he called me his sword-brother. Please, Master Dwarf, will you accept my hospitality for few weeks?”

“No elf shall stand between me and my father’s treasures!” Thorin said indignantly, “Cease working your magic upon us, Elf-King.”

“Ada,” Laiqua entered the audience chamber, “The army waits.”

“Thalion,” Thranduil said wearily, “Keep them safe until I return. We will decide on their quest then,” he waved his hand towards the dwarf, “Elrond did mention something of Mithrandir’s latest insane mission. We will bring the wizard here and let him speak with them.”

 

“A rather large host,” Saruman said thoughtfully, “It is not a good sign.”

“Meaning?” Mithrandir asked quietly, “I thought that the strength of the Eldar is the greatest hope we can have.”

“Eldar wanes,” Saruman sighed, “The elves are being called back west. So many sail from Mithlond every year. Who shall remain? The cursed house of Finwë and their followers. Almost all the rest of the Noldor and the Sindar are tired of Middle-Earth and are making west after this war.”

“But the race of humans shall rise,” Mithrandir said confidently, “There are many amongst the stewards, princes and nobles of the kingdoms of Gondor and Rohan who are great leaders of men.”

“Men, however high they rise, shall never mark upto the valour and the wisdom of the Quendi, the Elves,” Saruman shrugged before returning to join Gildor at the forefront, “If we fail to destroy Sauron this time, Mithrandir, we should certainly abandon hope. We no longer have the strength to meet him in the battlefield even if he had only an eighth of his powers.”

 

Elladan stiffened an instant when he saw the orcs pouring out across the plains. Gildor’s warriors, alongside whom the twins were fighting, charged forth to meet the host. Elladan took a deep breath and followed his twin into the melee. As an orc swung its mace towards Gildor, who was fighting off another orc, Elladan sliced his sword through the air. 

There was a sickening crush as his sword impacted on the orc’s armour before cutting through and meeting flesh. Elladan staggered slightly and stepped backwards. The orc sneered maliciously and swung its mace at him again. He did not even have the presence of mind to step back. The sharp brown eyes of the orc blazed with destructive fury. Elladan shuddered and closed his eyes, his whole frame trembling. There was a sharp cry and a rough grip steered him backwards. He opened his eyes to meet his twin’s eyes. He shivered involuntarily. Elrohir’s eyes were almost black with battle-lust. His features had become sharper and harsher. He was panting slightly from exertion.

“Move, you idiot,” he hissed before raising his sword and plunging back into the battle. 

Elladan raised his sword and followed his brother determinedly. They had both lost their innocence this day. Killing orcs on the fields was not the same as practicing with false dummies on the practice arena. 

 

Thranduil sighed in relief as they fought their way down the southern paths and merged with the host of Imladris. He could see the familiar figure of Glorfindel wrecking merciless havoc on the orcs fleeing before the elven hosts from the west. Thranduil made sure that Laiqua was still beside him before commanding his warriors to fall back into a defensive formation again.

“The gates are won,” Glorfindel rushed to his side flushed with the battlelust, “Come , Ernil-nîn. Let us take the war to him!”

“Indeed,” Thranduil raised his sword in defiance and smiled at Glorfindel, “Where are our friends?”

“Erestor is taking a sally to the south,” Glorfindel said pensively, “And Elrond backs the rest of the host. That is how they broke into a besieged Eregion. Gildor and his warriors secure the land won.”

“Come then,” Thranduil spurred his horse forth, “TO VICTORY!”

“TO VICTORY! FOR THE ELDAR!” Glorfindel raised his horse and followed his friend.

Elrond smiled relieved as he saw the standard of Thranduil fly in the north. His friend had won the watchtower and the gates. Now, if Erestor was lucky in his sally, they could join Thranduil for the final assault. He reverted his gaze to the dozen warriors making their way quietly to the outpost. Erestor’s mithril armour glittered in the starlight as his pale, chiselled features glowed afire with the spirit of their house. Elrond could hear Erestor’s warcry of “ELBERETH!” even from his position many feet away followed by the bloodcurdling screams of close combat. 

Half an hour later, a torn, blood spattered standard of the house of Finwë rose in the east. Cheers rose from the warriors in Elrond’s and Gildor’s ranks even as Thranduil charged down from the north and Elrond from the west. 

 

Elladan watched in awe as Erestor leapt onto a horse gracefully taking his position alongside Elrond as they led the host into Dol Guldur. Thranduil and Glorfindel broke down the northern gate with their fell charge. Orcs ran helter-skelter into the waiting ambushes of Gildor’s warriors. The creatures cowered before the victorious elves. 

Elladan had just finished routing out a group of fleeing orcs when he saw shapes loom before them. 

“WRAITHS!” Gildor warned as he spurred his horse forth to the forefront of his troops. 

Elladan watched stunned as Thranduil and Erestor rode towards them, their standard bearers close behind them, banners fluttering in the wind. For a moment, Elladan was sure that he did not know the fell elves riding fearlessly towards the three horsed wraiths. Thranduil’s green eyes were cold emeralds and Erestor’s black eyes a blazing inferno.

“ELBERETH!” Erestor cried in pure battlelust as he raised his sword in defiance alongside his friend.

Elladan flinched as the sound of metal against metal rose across the plains. Thranduil and Erestor seemed to be synchronized as if they were two bodies under one mind. Their swings, moves and parries were executed flawlessly with the cold fury of souls who had lost everything to darkness. 

There was a large explosion in the south followed by screams of elven warriors. Erestor parried a blow meant for Thranduil even as the King of Greenwood hunched slightly in his seat. The cloaks of the wraiths fell limply to the grass as they fled shapelessly.

 

“He has gone,” Thranduil squinted at the faint red rays of the dawn, “It is over, for now. He has fled east.”

“Mordor,” Elrond cursed as he wiped his sword on the charred grass.

“So it is not over,” Saruman sighed as he looked to the east, “He will rise again, and we shall be weaker.”

“But all the same, we shall meet him on the field,” Glorfindel promised grimly.

Erestor joined them, his face pensive as he gazed upon the ravaged grasslands. He took a deep breath before saying, “The children are fine though shaken by the massacre. I have sent Laiqua and the twins to Celeborn for now. Gildor has left for Rohan.”

“I must return north,” Thranduil sighed, “Mithrandir has stirred up something in Erebor. Lakemen call for my aid. And Thalion sent me a letter saying that he lost half my casks of Dorwinion somehow. A strange tale, he told me.”

“Will you need warriors?” Elrond asked his friend worriedly.

“No,” Thranduil shook his head, “I must leave, though. Galadriel can have charge of Laiqua till I settle matters here.”

 

Elladan watched them embrace each other. Elrond’s austere features were flushed from the battle. Glorfindel looked grimly disappointed by Sauron’s escape. Thranduil looked resigned yet determined, his green eyes a shade darker. He was talking quietly to Erestor. Elladan smiled as he saw his father’s sombre mien, so altered from the blazing spirit he had been during the battle. Now Erestor was clad in plain black tunic and leggings matching Elrond’s own that highlighted his slender frame and sharp jawbone. Would he ever make friends like that? Elladan wondered, as he turned to return to his twin’s side.

 

Galadriel closed her eyes as the mirror showed her the fiery pits of Mordor. Her last chance at redemption had fled east. 

“I will hunt you to the ends of the world and beyond,” she swore, “If that is what it takes for the salvation of my kin.”

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

Elladan cringed as Elrond shouted, “CELEBORN! I had no intention of marrying her in the first place.”

“You were coward enough to marry her on your cousin’s prodding though!” Celeborn snapped as he strode furiously towards his son by law.

“You were the coward! The obedient husband who gave his humble blessings for his daughter’s marriage to a perverted half-elf!” Elrond spat angrily.

“Indeed,” Haldir shouted, “I am glad that you accept you are perverted, Half-elven!”

“Don’t you dare,” Elrond sneered, “I come from the best lines of both men and elves, which is something your paltry Sylvan ancestry can never match ever.”

Elladan looked across at Elrohir and Laiqua who were talking softly in the corner, looking anxiously at the quarrelling elves. Gildor and Glorfindel were trying to coax Elrond back in vain. Elladan shook his head as Celeborn launched into yet another tirade about the Noldor. 

The door opened and Galadriel walked in, probably to check in on Laiqua. Her eyes widened as she took in the scene before her; Celeborn and Elrond standing nearly nose-to-nose, flushed in face and hands balled up into tight fists.

“My Lady Galadriel,” Haldir said sardonically, “You come at a most opportune time. Your one-time husband trying to reason with your one-time son by law.”

“’Bría is fading, Galadriel…and he says it is not his fault!” Celeborn said venomously, “I had enough of the entire court of Gil-Galad.”

Elrond turned towards Galadriel saying crisply, “This,” he waved his hand at a fuming Celeborn, “This elf was your mistake. I will not listen to his slander anymore. I married his daughter. But as we all walked into it open-eyed, why is he complaining now?”

Galadriel sighed, “My Lords, we have had this argument enough before.”

“And have reached no conclusion,” Celeborn snapped as he rounded on her.

She met his furious gaze before turning to face Laiqua and the twins saying, “The three of you can leave to the river or any of your picnic spots. Take your swords with you. It will take time to set an escort and I, for one, don’t want you here for this argument any longer.”

Elrohir nodded and left the chamber. Elladan glanced uncertainly at Elrond who mustered a smile of encouragement. 

Laiqua looked across at Celeborn and then at Galadriel before saying quietly, “Will you be all right, My Lady?”

Galadriel looked too stunned at his question to answer immediately. Haldir was staring at the young prince. Glorfindel cleared his throat and Gildor laughed. Elladan tugged at Laiqua’s hand uncertainly.

“What is that supposed to mean, Ernil Laiqua?” Celeborn asked incredulously, “She is quite safe with us. Now leave us!”

Elladan tried to drag him away, but the prince stood his ground. Elrond smiled saying, “Laiqua, I will be here. Leave us now.”

Laiqua bowed slightly before leaving the room, closing the door behind him softly. 

“Did you really have to poke grandfather’s flames now?” Elladan hissed to him as he dragged the prince away, “He was in a really high temper.”

“She was alone, it is not right to let her be shouted at as if she had nobody to stand by her…,” Laiqua sighed.

“Ada Elrond wouldn’t let grandfather shout at her,” Elladan said reassuringly, “And Gildor too was there.”

“I hope they don’t fight to death,” Laiqua shrugged as they strode into the woods, “’Ro must be already with the healers. We can as well as give up the hope of seeing him again before supper. Come, ‘Dan, let us go swim in the river.”

“All right with me,” Elladan shrugged, “as long as we don’t have to watch another argument again. Makes me feel like escaping with the Rangers that Gildor occasionally camps with in the north.”

Laiqua laughed as he led his friend into the woods with the supreme confidence that the Sindar race had in any forest. Elladan followed him smiling. 

 

Erestor pressed a hand to his forehead in exasperation as the warriors of Lothlórien began yet another argument. He wondered exactly why he had agreed to take on Celeborn’s duties for the day. Well, he sighed, he had not agreed voluntarily. He had been made to agree after Celeborn said he wanted to discuss matters regarding Celebrían with Elrond, her law husband. 

“Please,” he said quietly as a dozen Sylvan heads flicked up towards him, “We must come to a conclusion regarding the patrol.”

“Come, we shouldn’t disobey the high-king’s concubine,” one of the senior-most captains said with a sneer. 

“True,” another Erestor identified as Haldir’s brother Orophin, “Now Lord Celeborn is talking sense into the Peredhel, who has thrown over our Lady Celebrían for his dead cousin’s catamite.”

Erestor opened his mouth to retort, but then decided it would not be worth the trouble. Resolutely, he drove on, “I have here Lord Celeborn’s patrol scheme. Please do tell me before eve if you have any suggestions.”

“After the eve, you will be otherwise occupied; as a bedwarmer,” Orophin sneered. 

“Well, that would be my personal concern,” Erestor said pleasantly as he rose from the council table and brushed down his black robes, “Thank you for attending this meeting, my fellow warriors.”

He was unhappy when he saw Orophin sidle upto him as he left. Erestor had wanted to hurry back to Elrond and Celeborn as soon as he could. Knowing Celeborn’s impulsiveness and Elrond’s temper, he was quite sure that they would have started a quarrel by now. And he wanted to get there before things worsened.

“Lord Erestor,” Orophin took his arm as if Erestor was some maid he was wooing.

Resigning himself to a scandalous conversation, Erestor firmly pulled his arm back and said, “May I help you?”

“I am not interested in male flesh, however highly enticing or rated the person might be,” Orophin said snidely.

“Certainly that is wonderful to hear,” Erestor said sardonically, “I would pity the males who might have been stunned by your outdated, inapplicable wooing style. Now if you can think of something more imaginative than me being a royal bedwarmer, I would be delighted to hear it.”

“Your lack of anger means that our accusations are true,” Orophin said cruelly.

“It simply indicates that I don’t wish to pursue and validate every bit of rumour regarding me. If I were to do that, I would be fighting duels with elves all my time than slaying orcs,” Erestor smiled faintly as he met the incredulous brown eyes of his tormentor, “I once had the opportunity of meeting your brother, Rúmil. Though it was a small amount of time that I had the pleasure of his company, I certainly enjoyed his conversation. He had something more to talk about than my nocturnal activities.”

“Then you would be shocked to hear that my brother has been fading for centuries…,” Orophin halted uncharacteristically, his arrogance fading.

“What?” Erestor asked in a shocked tone, “I did not know. Since when? Why? Not Celeborn…,” he closed his eyes and exhaled deeply.

“’Tis the Lord of Lothlórien,” Orophin said softly, “And since he came back from Imladris. Your father killed our mother, and you killed my brother literally when you asked him to stay away from Galadriel’s husband. Why then should Haldir and I ever rejoice seeing you happy?”

Erestor flinched slightly, but then said composedly, “Take me to him, please. I wish to see him.”

 

“I want a decision; final and binding!” Celeborn shouted.

“Don’t we all?” Elrond spat back.

“Lord Celeborn, if you would lower your voice,” Galadriel said quietly as she watched the curious gathering outside their talan.

“You have never said that all those years we were married,” Celeborn said sharply, turning to face her, his face tinged with furious red.

“Celeborn,” Gildor said warningly as Galadriel sighed, “We did agree not to speak of that.”

“Oh, so you stand by her,” Celeborn snorted, “And you know very well that she would not stand by your kind while you were massacring us in Doriath! She had dual loyalty; she chose me when it suited her when your house was hunted. And now she chooses you, when your house is revered and pitied.”

“Celeborn,” Glorfindel stood wearily, “Must we--?”

“Yes, we must,” Celeborn said angrily, “I want a reason, a good reason, why she ended us just like that?” He turned to face her, “If it was after I broke our vows by infidelity, I would have accepted it as my due. But now?”

Galadriel faced him calmly, her eyes cool as she said, “I would have forgiven you even if you had lain with anyone before my very own eyes. But I can never forgive you for accusing me of enjoying what I endured at the hands of an orc which was once my nephew.”

“He –what?” Gildor spluttered, “Tell me, Galadriel.”

Galadriel shook her head saying softly, “My Lord Celeborn, I will go now. And leave the stage and your victory to you. Never again will I justify myself regarding this even if you drag me before the highest council. Enough have I given up for you. I gave up my kin in Doriath because I chose you over them; I chose our love. But Celeborn, guilt tears at me now. Perhaps if I had gone with them, I could have talked Maedhros out of his madness…if I hadn’t chosen you, I may have helped Celebrimbor see Sauron for what he was,” she inhaled deeply before bowing and moving out gracefully.

“Damn you,” Celeborn cursed her, “I still love you; damn you, Altáriel!”

Gildor sighed even as Elrond and Glorfindel shared a meaningful glance. Elrond knew well that even his love for Erestor barely matched the deep rooted love that Galadriel and Celeborn had. And to see that ancient love broken and destroyed, Elrond shivered slightly…if even the love of Galadriel and Celeborn could not win against the curse of Mandos, then could his love win? He remembered the words of Mandos that Maglor had taught him patiently. 

“Tears unnumbered ye shall shed; and not even the echo of your lamentation shall pass over the mountains. On the House of Finwë the wrath of the Valar lieth from the West unto the uttermost East.. Slain ye may be, and slain ye shall be by weapon and by torment and by grief; and your houseless spirits shall come then to Mandos. There long shall ye abide and yearn for your bodies, and find little pity. And those that endure in Middle-earth shall grow weary of the world as with a great burden, and shall wane, and become as shadows of regret before the younger race that cometh after. The Valar have spoken.”

“Curse you,” Elrond said mutinously as he strode out of the room, “You will not destroy our love as easily. I will fight for it.”

“Has he been talking to himself much?” Gildor asked sarcastically as Elrond barged away fuming.

“Gildor,” Glorfindel sighed, “I am tired of this…Weary, hopeless and cynical.”

“Jump off the talan. Who knows, Mandos might have pity on you the second time and let you stay there,” Gildor said dryly.

“Shut that worthless mouth of yours, will you?” Glorfindel said irritated.

“Why don’t you do it for me?” Gildor smirked before walking away, “Let me go find Laiqua. He is better company.”

“You should best get over that moonlit infatuation for Thranduil,” Glorfindel said acidly, “He’s not going to succumb however much you manage to endear yourself to his son.”

“Glorfindel,” Gildor paused at the door, “Don’t deny a fool his hope.”

 

Orophin said in a low voice, “You are sure you wish to go in there, are you? He gets violent with strangers.”

“I won’t harm him,” Erestor said quietly, “And it isn’t your concern if he harms me.”

Orophin cast him a dark look before letting him in. Erestor took a deep breath and entered. He shivered involuntarily as he saw the hunched, frail, aged, broken form sitting on the edge of the bed.

Hazel eyes look uncomprehendingly at Erestor, measuring him with a maddening calm. Then Rúmil rose quietly and advanced towards him. Erestor looked for signs of recognition in those cold brown eyes, but found none. 

“Rúmil?” he said softly, “I mean you no harm. Please, listen to what I have to say.”

Rúmil snarled and grabbed Erestor’s arms pinioning him successfully against the door with a thud knocking out the breath from his lungs for a long moment. Erestor gasped and tried to defend himself, but madness lent his opponent a brute strength. Erestor groaned in pain as a hand in his hair yanked him to face Rúmil. Erestor found the other elf’s nose touching his own and a heated midsection rubbing against him furiously. Dilated hazel, brown eyes stared into his own revealing terror, fury, desperation and lust all in equal measure.

Erestor mentally cursed Celeborn before relaxing determinedly in Rúmil’s grip. There was a slight astonishment in the brown eyes as Rúmil felt the loosening of Erestor’s body against him. Erestor calmed himself wilfully even though he felt sickened by the wetness of his companion’s arousal on his thigh. 

“Rúmil,” Erestor smiled sincerely and placed a hand on Rúmil’s heaving shoulders continued in his most soothing tones, “Please, this is Erestor of Imladris, don’t you remember me?”

Rúmil’s expression slowly changed from desperation to confusion as he moved back slightly. Erestor did not attempt to move away from him. He continued imploring the other elf in his most charming tones. He thought wryly that had Elrond been there, he would have been reminded of Maglor. He nearly fell on his knees and sobbed when finally recognition flitted through the brown eyes slightly.

“Haldir?” Rúmil questioned finally.

“Is with errm…,” Erestor bit his tongue before Celeborn’s name slipped, “The warriors discussing the patrol rosters. I will call Orophin now.”

“RÚMIL!” Orophin’s voice was stunned and hoarse as he entered, “OH!, VALAR be praised! OH! RÚMIL!”

“Brother,” Rúmil sighed as he gave into his older brother’s embrace willingly, “Thank you for everything.”

His eyes met Erestor’s black ones and he whispered quietly, “Thank you.” He watched as Erestor smiled sincerely, yet reluctantly, and left the room, his head bowed.

 

“Thalion,” Thranduil let out a deep long-suffering sigh, “Let me see. Not only did the said Halfling escape with those blasted dwarves, but they also managed to destroy half my supplies of the DORWINION,” he buried his head in his hands, “And to cap it all, they went alone to the thrice-cursed mountain to win their treasure.”

“That,” Thalion paused, “is not all…”

Thranduil sighed again as Mithrandir stepped forth with a maniacal grin. He said mournfully, “You will not let me live in peace, you meddling magician! All right, out with it then.”

“There is a great orc host coming to attack Erebor,” Mithrandir said cheerily, “And I thought you would like to join us…”

“Join whom exactly?” Thranduil enquired sardonically.

“Thirteen dwarves, a Halfling, a wizard, a few hundred Lakemen…there you are,” Mithrandir offered.

“Does the word suicidal imply nothing to you?” Thranduil tugged at his crown absently, “I have half-a-mind to send you to Celeborn. He knows how to deal with your kind. You expect me to send my elves to Erebor to fight orcs and protect dwarven treasure? Whatever was there inside that upper attic of yours has stopped functioning.”

“The upper attic works fine. The lower could do with some conditioning though now,” Mithrandir winked as Thranduil groaned in pure despair, “What say you, Lord Oropherion?”

“I will come,” Thranduil sighed, “The lakemen are my allies. And the dwarves, I have every intention of keeping them alive until they pay me twice over for my lost kegs of the Dorwinion.”

 

Galadriel managed a small smile as she saw Erestor wandering upto her looking dishevelled and worried. His normally immaculate robes were crunched up and his hair sprouting out of its usual black cascade. She had never seen him like this, not even after a battle. He looked slightly less self-assured and younger, vulnerable. 

“I hope you haven’t been sleep walking after activities with Elrond,” she remarked, “Lord Celeborn will have you roasted and gutted.”

“I have resigned myself to that in the long term,” he shrugged before coming to stand next to her, “I met Rúmil.”

She raised her eyebrows, but did not comment. She should have known that he always ended up enmeshed in tangled love affairs.

“He is recovering now,” Erestor paused thoughtfully, “At least I think he is.”

“Celeborn was a coward there. He should have spoken with the young elf. I tried to speak with Rúmil myself, but had no success. And matters weren’t helped by two extra-Sylvan, overprotective brothers,” Galadriel fingered a strand of her hair pensively, “What did you say to break him out of his self-destruction? That Celeborn is free to be pursued now.”

“I…,” Erestor said quietly, “I could not bear to see him so broken. Mad…Galadriel, I never….”

“I will not fade or destroy myself like that young elf,” she laughed bitterly, “I meant what I said when I dissolved our vows. He is free to love and bond with Celeborn. And I shall never wish them anything less than the purest happiness.”

Erestor sighed and they stood silently their thoughts hanging between them like an oppressive cloak. 

Finally Galadriel said quietly, “Thranduil swore not to sail until and unless we do.”

“Then we shall have to sail as soon as we can,” Erestor murmured, “Regardless of what awaits us there. We cannot let him linger on these lands.”

 

Elladan whistled, “Laiqua, there is something there, on the shore across.”

“We aren’t allowed to cross the river,” Laiqua hissed warningly as Elladan began making for the other side, “’Dan, we are alone. Orcs from Moria often come there. It is only the fear of Galadriel that keeps them away.”

“Laiqua, it doesn’t look like an orc,” Elladan said concernedly as he tried to spot the huddled form on the other shore, “What can you see? Your eyes are better than mine.”

“’Dan,” Laiqua sighed in exasperation before swimming across to join his friend, “We are sitting pigeons for any orc out there.”

“Look there,” Elladan motioned impatiently, “What is it? Else I must swim across and find out.”

“After all the quarrels and heartbreak that your parents went through to make you, you should know better than to throw your life away like this,” Laiqua clucked before gazing in the direction that Elladan’s fingers pointed to. 

Elladan watched worriedly as curiosity and then alarm flitted across Laiqua’s fair features. 

“Cover me,” Laiqua whispered, “I’ll go across.”

“I am coming,” Elladan raised his eyebrows.

“Fine,” Laiqua dived underneath and flitted towards the other shore as silently as a fish. Elladan cast the strong, taut, lithe, youthful body of his friend a lingering glance of admiration before following him.

 

“Elrond,” Erestor opened the door quietly and found Elrond slumped in the chair exhaustedly, “Are you well?”

“As well as I can be after another quarrel with Celeborn,” Elrond smiled wanly, “And ‘Bría too is weakening steadily. She needs to bind with someone, to keep her alive. Celeborn is angry with us all.”

“Haldir…,” Erestor trailed off, “Well, ‘Bría is a much-sought after woman. If she expresses an interest in anyone here, they would be honoured.”

“Come here,” Elrond rose to his feet and opened his arms, “I need you close.”

“You have been thinking of the prophecy of Mandos,” Erestor stated baldly, his eyes shadowed by turmoil as he obeyed Elrond and they embraced.

“Why do you say that, just so calmly?” Elrond asked brokenly.

“Celeborn and Galadriel must have argued. I saw her at the lakeside, looking lost and alone. Whenever they argue, he mentions the curse. And you have always set much store by it,” Erestor smoothed Elrond’s dark hair softly, “Reading a mind isn’t that hard , especially when it happens we think alike..”

“You too?” Elrond gasped as he pulled back wildly.

“Yes,” Erestor smiled bitterly, “But I promise you, we shall go down fighting than live apart. What we have now is too potent that I crave for it every moment of this existence, Elrond. I cannot live without you.”

“I live for you,” Elrond spoke resolutely as he closed the distance with a chaste kiss to Erestor’s lips. They stood together in the darkening chamber watching the sun sink under the trees.

* * *

Elladan followed his friend to the shore. Laiqua had already bounded out towards the limp form and was on his knees examining the body. 

“Elf,” he pronounced, “A maiden…she’s not wounded. Just plain exhausted. Noldorin?”

Elladan hurried to his side and helped him haul the figure into a sitting position. The woman stirred and pale grey eyes met Elladan’s wearily. An uncommonly beautiful maiden, Elladan noted absently as he reached to finger her pulse. The fair skin was blemished by scars and bruises. And the dark, long hair was matted and unkempt. The maid was well-formed and had a pleasing figure that spoke of Sindarin blood. But the dark hair proclaimed Noldorin ancestors. Her eyes were fixed wonderingly on Laiqua, who was (in Elladan’s opinion) showing off his lithe features to their best advantage, leaning against a smooth rock. 

“Thank you,” she spoke in a refined, soft voice that reminded Elladan of Anoriel, “I had despaired of ever finding my way to Lothlórien.”

“We are grateful that we were here,” Elladan said softly, “Did you get lost?”

“I have been lost for centuries,” she said in a quiet tone that sent shivers down Elladan’s spine. 

 

“Erestor,” Elrond said idly as he shifted in the bed to face his companion, who was reading a scroll in the dim candlelight, “Put it away and talk to me.”

“Ever glad,” Erestor raised an eyebrow, “What bothers you?” he smiled devilishly, “Any bodily condition I can help with?”

“I would be delighted,” Elrond tried to calm his increasing pulse rate, “But let’s postpone it….I have a heavier matter to discuss.”

Erestor’s eyebrows rose higher as the last traces of good humour left his eyes, “Yes?”

“Would it be folly to send Thranduil and Laiqua to Ingwë?” Elrond began cautiously, “I don’t want our doom holding Thranduil in thrall.”

Erestor leant back on the cushions and said quietly, “Thranduil will not sail, unless we do. He has sworn to it.”

“’Restor,” Elrond sighed, “I don’t want to drag him down with us. Sauron has escaped us again. Our people are all sailing, our warriors are all weary. The alliances with Rohan and Gondor are fading. My brother’s descendants wander in the north under the leadership of Arathorn of Isildur’s line. The Maiar cannot help us anymore. Galadriel is starting to become really desperate. We cannot fight him again and win. We must get Thranduil to sail.”

“It is too late for him,” Erestor said sadly as he leant to caress Elrond’s face, “Nothing that we can do will make him sail, an oathbreaker.” 

Elrond fell silent morosely thinking of Thranduil’s plight. He clenched his fists in the sheets as his mind clouded with foreboding.

Erestor sighed and bent over to press a warm kiss on Elrond’s lips murmuring, “I’ll talk with him….and with Glor, they don’t deserve our fate. Don’t burn your head for that now. Try to get some sleep. I’ll go see to our escort. Glorfindel wishes to clear the passes before winter. I am waiting only for Thranduil’s missive…I fear he will again be pulled into a war in Erebor.”

“’Restor,” Elrond leant upwards toppling Erestor onto him, “Do you think he will take a lover again?”

“Why?” Erestor laughed as he kissed Elrond’s fingers chastely, “Going to pair up with Laiqua to find him one?”

“No,” Elrond said scandalized, “I mean…he’s lonely. What if he wants to, but doesn’t do it because of his love for Anoriel?”

“I asked him,” Erestor smiled at the baffled expression on Elrond’s face, “Come, Elrond, I am the chief advisor to the Noldor after all…,” his eyes darkened, “Thranduil has a secret desire.”

“Like I did for more than a millennia,” Elrond said with dawning horror and pity, “But my secret desire was virtually written on my face to see. I suspected nothing in Thranduil. Is it anyone unsuitable?”

“I have no clue,” Erestor smiled sadly, “He did not confide in me. I had to confront him after the war. He did not deny that he had someone in mind…but he refused to discuss any further.”

 

“My Lady Galadriel,” Haldir bowed politely, “We were waiting for your arrival. There has been a new arrival in Lothlórien. Prince Thranduilion and Lord Elladan brought her here.”

Galadriel tried to look as serene as ever as she passed her erstwhile husband ignoring his stare. She had not forgotten; she suppressed a sigh; today was the anniversary of their marriage. She resolutely maintained her calm mien and took her seat beside him; The Lord and Lady of Lothlórien.

“Bring her, Elladan,” Celeborn said quietly, his eyes still on Galadriel, who was finally showing a slight discomposure under his steady stare. 

“A woman?” Galadriel wondered as the woman walked in, side-by-side with Elladan. 

Taller than the Sindarin women, Galadriel noticed. And young, as the full figure proclaimed. As the woman curtsied low to the rulers of Lothlórien and looked up, her grey-blue eyes meeting Galadriel’s gaze fearlessly, Celeborn noticed Galadriel’s breathing become harsher. He motioned the guards to leave, so that only Elladan, Elrohir and Galadriel remained.

“What is your name?” Galadriel’s voice betrayed only the slightest quiver, “And what is your tale?”

“Arwen,” the woman said proudly, her dark, black hair floating about her beautiful face softly, “That was how my father named me.”

Celeborn asked, “And who is your father? Where are you from? How did you end up alone outside the borders?”

“My father was Celebrimbor Ring-smith,” her voice betrayed pride and sorrow in equal measure, “He sent me to Narvi’s people when trouble began in Eregion.”

Elladan gasped and stepped backwards involuntarily. Galadriel merely nodded, her expression as sombre as usual. Celeborn pressed a hand to his throbbing temples, Elu Thingol had been right, to mix with the Noldor was harmful to one’s mental health in the long run.

“Call Elrond, Erestor and Gildor,” he said finally, “Seeing that they are kin.”

“Call Eleriel too, My Lord,” Galadriel said softly, “She will want to see the young lady.”

“Why so?” he asked now too flummoxed to care about maintaining aloofness.

She smiled; that smile that recalled to him the days when she would teasingly remark on his slow intelligence compared to her wisdom. Of course, they both knew he was as wise as her, but less obvious. 

“My de-,” she flushed and averted her head, “My Lord, she is Eleriel’s child. Can’t you see Anoriel in her features? I sense Melian’s blood in her.”

 

Erestor smiled at Elrond’s scowl as a knock on their door came. Elrond pouted angrily and tried to prevent his companion from rising from the bed.

“Would you want them to find us in a carnal embrace?” Erestor asked amusedly tracing the outline of Elrond’s lips with a long, lazy finger. 

“It isn’t like the fact is a secret,” Elrond muttered, “Let them come later. I have rarely spent time with you of late.”

“Time,” Erestor’s eyes darkened, “We never seem to have enough of it, despite our immortality.”

“Welcome to the brooder’s company; I did never expect you to join me there,” Elrond laughed as he took Erestor’s left hand and kissed it, his lips brushing accidentally against the elegant ring wrought by Celebrimbor himself, a daily reminder of Erestor’s vows to Gil-Galad. The intensity of their sin struck Elrond once more. He raised his eyes to meet Erestor’s unfaltering gaze.

“We knew what we were doing. If I had the power to turn back the centuries, I would have chosen the same for us as we chose on the day we first shared our bodies,” Erestor smiled one of his rare, full smiles that seemed to be becoming less frequent with time, “I have never regretted this, Elrond. And I will not regret it even when I stand on the Circle of Judgement after we sail.”

Elrond lay back exhaustedly onto the bed as he watched Erestor move away, dressing with practised efficiency in his formal robes before going to the door. Elrond sighed, he did not regret it in the least either; which was exactly why he worried. What would their end be?

“Thranduil,” he whispered, “Please sail and be rid of us before it is too late, my prince.”

 

“Erestor,” Galadriel smiled wryly as he closed the door behind him, “I am sorry to disturb you now. But something of extreme importance to us has come up.”

“Bad tidings?” Erestor asked worriedly as he offered her his arm and led her to the gardens, “I thought that Thranduil was holding his lands without trouble from the last missive I received.”

“Elladan and Laiqua found a woman on the borders of the river Nimrodel. She hails from Moria,” Galadriel sighed as she gratefully entwined her fingers in his. She thought absently how far they had all come. She saw more and more of Maglor in him now. And she trusted his counsel when once all they had for each other was pure hatred. 

“A woman from Moria?” Erestor frowned, “A dwarf?”

“No,” Galadriel paused, “An elf, Half-Noldor; Half-Sindar.”

“An elf from Moria?” Erestor stopped walking, “I confess I am not enlightened. There has been no friendship between the elves and the dwarves since the days of Celebrimbor. He was the last elf to hold the trust of the dwarves. That is why Durin joined the last alliance; to avenge him.”

“Yes, the allegiance of dwarves to Eregion was far more than we knew. Celebrimbor’s daughter,” Galadriel met his incredulous gaze, “And Eleriel’s. I have no idea why fate is so warped.” 

“You are not the only one to ask that question,” Erestor murmured, “Take me to her. I need to see this woman. We will decide on our course then. Nobody must be told though. Too many still resent the ringmaker for all the grief that resulted after he taught Sauron.”

 

Arwen carefully watched the Lady of Lothlórien talking with her nephew, Erestor. She had heard of him in Durin’s court, the chief-counsellor to the High-King. His pale, royal features proclaimed his heritage. Galadriel too bore the defining characteristics of the house of Finwë, but her will proved her ancestry more than her looks, which were part Vanyarin. Arwen shuddered slightly, her mentors in Moria had taught her to be wary of the sole remaining grandchild of Finwë.

“My Lady Arwen,” Erestor smiled briefly at her even as his dark eyes measured her steadily, “Welcome to Lothlórien. Erestor Maglorion at your service.”

Arwen bowed, feeling vulnerable under the deep, penetrating regard of those wise, yet, haunted eyes. There was something in him that far surpassed even her father’s own fire. She murmured, “Arwen, daughter of Celebrimbor.”

Erestor nodded to Galadriel who smiled a touch relieved before withdrawing quietly, “Would you walk with me, Lady Arwen?”

“Thank you, My Lord Erestor,” she looked about futilely for the twins or Laiqua, but they had already left. She smiled hesitantly, Erestor seemed more forbidding than the rest of the elves she had met so far. 

“Call me Erestor, please,” he said quietly, his silken robe-clad wrist brushing her bare arm reassuringly, “I don’t prefer titles.”

“If you promise to call me Arwen,” she smiled feeling more at ease now, “I was afraid how I would be received by my father’s family. The dwarves told me that you are now ruling in Imladris. And that I would find a home there.”

“Why didn’t you come with an escort?” he plunged in directly. It amazed her; she had expected him to start with a diplomatic line; enquiries about her well-being and health.

“I have heard far more dreadful news than the unexpected surfacing of Celebrimbor’s daughter,” he smiled amusedly, “If I had reacted each time with more intensity than I did, I assure you, I would not have survived thus far.”

She blushed saying surprised, “How did you know I was thinking that?”

“I’ll be glad to tell that complicated tale sometime soon. But now, we must see to your matters,” he glanced at her, “I need to know your story.”

“I am sorry,” she said apologetically, “I do understand that I was supposed to have told Lord Celeborn a long time ago. But I was worried as to how he would react,” she inhaled deeply, “My father never meant me to return to elvendom,” she bit her lips, “He had a vague premonition of some sort early in my childhood. After that he rarely allowed me to meet elves or men. He sent me to Narvi’s people when Sauron came to Eregion. I was raised there. They were most kind to me,” she smiled uncertainly, “I loved being with my foster-family.”

“They are a most worthy race,” Erestor said sincerely, “I had the honour of fighting alongside Durin of Moria in the Last Alliance.”

“My father always feared the curse on his father’s house. He feared that fate would bring me under it. He sought to keep me away from it,” she smiled slightly, “To the extent of sending me to be hoarded by the dwarves and brought up in the caves.”

“You speak both the common tongue and Sindarin excellently. It is hard to believe you were brought up by the dwarves,” Erestor smiled faintly, “So tell me of the absent parent now.”

“I wondered how fast you would get there,” she laughed weakly, “And it was really fast, Lord Erestor.”

“If it would help you, my mother abandoned my sister and me, she was more concerned about absolving her bond to my father,” he said quietly.

“Thank you,” she said earnestly, “It helps me find the courage, My Lord. My mother had a liaison with my father during their days together in Balar. She did not know of his ancestry, though she knew that he was royal. She was lonely, and he was irresistible; the smith without compare, the Fëanorian charm...but when she knew of him, she was not willing to risk a life under the curse. She married Amdir and they left for Lothlórien. She left me in Balar with father. He never loved anyone after her. I have never met her; Eleriel, Princess of Doriath. I don’t think I ever wish to meet her,” she broke off vehemently, “My father buried himself in his forge after that. She was responsible for everything that followed. I hate her.”

“I am sorry,” she said brokenly as Erestor reassuringly patted her hand, “I should not have said that.”

“I understand,” he said quietly, “I have often felt the same.”

They walked quietly for a while before she continued, “The dwarven holds are falling. They sent me away with an escort to Lothlórien, we were attacked by orcs. My escort bid me escape as fast as I could. I left them behind,” a tear trailed down her cheek and splashed onto Erestor’s silk-clad wrist, “I am an elf brought up by dwarves, where will I fit in?”

Erestor said gently, “You will always be welcome where I am, Arwen. I cannot offer you what your father would have wanted for you. But I will understand if you would wish to give up your father’s bloodline and choose your mother’s heritage…I would advise you to do so. Come with me to Imladris if you cannot be happy in Lothlórien.”

“How will you explain me?” she laughed disbelievingly, “As a prisoner rescued from the orcs who lost her memory, Lord Erestor?”

“No,” Erestor smiled wryly, “Arwen, if you know anything of my life, then you will realize that I don’t have to bother with explanations. People already have the worst view about me. They will probably mutter something about me seducing you against your family’s will and keeping you thrall.”

“Why?” she asked stunned, “Why would they believe such things of you? My mentors always had the highest opinion of you as a leader, a warrior and a counsellor.”

“I promise to tell you that lurid tale in explicit detail,” he said dryly, “Now, I wish to introduce you to Lord Elrond, who rules Imladris alongside me. Healer, warrior, administrator, loremaster, herald to the Noldor throne and so much more. Come with me.”

 

“My Queen,” Galadriel entered the widowed queen’s chambers uncertainly, “I bring news.”

“My husband is dead. My son is dead. My daughter is dead. My grandson does not even remember me and I do not regret that,” the hoarse, hollow voice spoke harshly, “I need no news from the outside world.”

“I bring news of your daughter, Arwen. She has come from Moria,” Galadriel said gently.

“You rave,” came back the flat reply, “I knew you would finally go insane, Galadriel, what with your meddling in sorcery and mindgames. I heard that Celeborn finally broke your bonds. I do wonder why he put up with all this so long.”

Galadriel reined in her temper and said quietly, “She claims Celebrimbor as her father. And I see much of my nephew in her. And I see the blood of Melian and Dior in her.”

“Elbereth,” Eleriel whispered, “Tell me you lie, Noldor Witch!”

“I wish I were,” Galadriel said wearily, “He sent her to his closest allies and friends when war came. She was well-cared for. A striking resemblance to your grandmother Lúthien…”

“Tell me no more,” Eleriel hissed furiously, “He did it to claim revenge. He never loved me. He used me!”

“Our house has many failings,” Galadriel smiled bitterly, “But, Queen Eleriel, I can say confidently that we love with all that we are.”

 

“And this is the famed Lord Elrond Peredhel,” Erestor said with a dramatic arm flourish at Elrond.

Arwen returned Elrond’s warm smile helplessly. There was an approachability about him that she had not felt with Galadriel or Erestor. He took her hand and kissed her fingers gallantly. 

“Cousin Celebrimbor was wrong to name you Arwen,” Elrond murmured as the moon rose in the skies, lighting her porcelain features, “You are the best of the Sindar and the Noldor. As beautiful as the evenstar…,” he trailed away, “Yes, Erestor, that is it,” he said happily, “I will call you Undómiel, Evenstar.”

Arwen could nearly believe that she was dreaming as Erestor said agreeably, “Of course, Elrond. Undómiel suits her…Arwen Undómiel.”

“I feel honoured, though I do not know if deserve that kindness,” she said hesitantly.

“Elrond honours only the best,” Erestor chuckled wryly, “Now I must leave you with him. I need to see to our escort. We are leaving for Imladris in the morning.”

As they watched Erestor glide away noiselessly, his rich silken deep-brown robes barely making a rustle, Arwen noticed a certain expression on Elrond’s face that she had seen many a time whenever her father had spoken of her absent mother.

“You love him,” she remarked.

“Melian’s blood has not failed then,” Elrond said easily, “Yes, Undómiel, I love him.”

“But…,” she faltered at seeing the absence of a band on his fingers, she was sure that she had seen a band on Erestor’s fingers.

“We have a colourful history,” Elrond shrugged wearily, “Let me tell you before someone less partial to us decides to enlighten you.”

 

He found her slumped against a tree, her arms wrapped protectively about her slender waist, her eyes closed tightly, her frame shivering with unshed sobs. For a moment, he tried to steel himself and leave. But then the wind blew through the trees, the moonlight shone in her waving hair, which was once as lustrous as the golden light of Valinor. His better sense lost to his memories.

“You should try to rest,” he said lamely, walking towards her, “You are wearing yourself thin.”

She opened her eyes showing no surprise at his presence saying half-amusedly, “I was wondering if you would speak anytime soon.”

“You were expecting me?” he asked bewildered.

“I know your tread,” she shrugged; her eyes haunted, “I could identify it in a battlefield if I had to.”

“I am sorry for what I spoke that day,” he said exhaustedly, sitting down on the stump of a fallen tree across her, “It was the cruellest thing I have ever said to anyone.”

“It would not have changed things,” she said quietly, “You haven’t yet completed the cycle.”

“I refuse to renounce my vows,” he said in a shaking voice, “Would you rather I did it?”

“What I want has never been granted,” she said emptily, “I no longer have the courage to wish.”

* * *

“I will not think of it,” Elrond said in a brittle voice, “Enough have the twins suffered from your absence in their lives. I will not let you sail as if you had no obligations on Middle-Earth!”

“Elrond Half-Elven,” Celebrían said firmly, “It is my life. We are not bound. I refuse to let my child grow up in this den of Noldor vice. And I wish to be healed and happy. Valinor is my choice.”

“We have the right---,” Elrond began again, his face livid with fury.

“No, you don’t,” Celebrían said viciously, “None of you have any hold upon me. I married you out of my wish to do right by my parents and my King. No more do I care what they wish. My life is my own, and I shall not let my mother or you interfere.”

“The twins,” Erestor, who had been standing near Celebrían’s couch, said sadly, “They are still too young to go through this. Please, ‘Bría, will you not stay until they understand?”

“No,” she said calmly, “I mean to sail on the next ship. I have already written to Galdor and Círdan. I need nothing from my parents or you to execute my plans.”

 

Thranduil smiled grimly as Thalion and he led the warriors back successfully from the battle in Erebor. Laketown was razed to the ground. Thranduil knew that he would have to spare aid and resources to help rebuild that city. And the dwarves of the Lonely Mountain too would need his help in the coming days. He sighed; he was hard pressed on all sides. The southern border with Lothlórien and the banks of the river were always under attack by the orcs. The eastern borders were plagued by wild men. As it lay, he was short of warriors. Now he had a new call upon his limited resources. The pulse of Greenwood was draining him.

“Ernil-nîn,” Thalion prodded his horse beside his unusually quiet companion, “You have been brooding since we left Laketown, I didn’t know that you regretted losing the Dorwinion that badly.”

“Of course, I do!” Thranduil snarled with mock fury, “How in the name of Mandos will I get counsel from that Noldo now?”

“You can always bribe Erestor with offers to kill Haldir of Lórien; I heard that they had quite a few ugly scenes in Lórien, Elrond was worried in his last letter to me,” Thalion confided.

“Erestor has the grace to shrug off such insults with aplomb,” Thranduil smiled wryly, “I daresay he and I are used to insults by now. The dwarves accused me of charming the men of Laketown.”

“You are a charmer,” Thalion sniggered, “I did agree with them on that.”

Thranduil rolled his eyes as they rode into the courtyard; once his father would have waited on the steps to receive him home. His face darkened. So many had died after the Last Alliance in the skirmishes and small combats all about the forest. Perhaps if Oropher had been ruling, things would not have deteriorated so alarmingly.

“I hear that Galadriel is leaving with Elrond and Erestor to Imladris. The climate in Lothlórien is not conducive to her right now,” Thalion remarked, “It is glad to hear that they have buried their differences and united finally. I have always liked them all. It was a pity that they fought like alleycats till now.”

“Galadriel is becoming desperate in her solitary quest to thwart Sauron,” Thranduil muttered, “She needs Elrond’s wisdom and Erestor’s strategy for that. She needs powerful allies. And she has them in Círdan and me. If she has managed to mend bridges with Elrond, then she will have achieved what nobody could; uniting the Sindar and the Noldor. Celeborn, for all their martial problems, will stand by her when it comes to the final commitment.”

“His daughter is a powerful woman; she can make him choose differently,” Thalion said quietly, “And she would rather let Sauron win than see her mother succeed.”

“That is the reason why both Galadriel and Erestor are working in tandem. They are no fools. They will come up with something. Erestor has never failed in a strategy game yet,” Thranduil shrugged as he leapt off his mare wishing desperately that he would wake up in the morning by his wife’s side and find his father at the breakfast table.

 

“’Restor,” Glorfindel slouched in bad-temperedly, “We are supposed to leave at dawn. What are you dithering here for? Go, get some rest. I mean to ride hard until we cross the mountains. Thranduil warned me to not let down the guard in the passes of the Hithaeglir.”

“Elladan and Elrohir plan to stay on in Lothlórien until Laiqua leaves for Greenwood,” Erestor sighed as he set down his quill and blew the parchment dry, “I was writing to Círdan.”

“I suspect that Elladan likes the princeling more than Elrohir does,” Glorfindel sighed as he shoved away the scrolls and sat down on the couch, plopping his head into Erestor’s lap, “They are all grown up. I still remember how Elladan used to ride on my mare leaning against me.”

“Elrond was complaining about it,” Erestor said amusedly, “He wanted to shrink them back to elflings. So that we can tell them stories to make them sleep; let them poke us with those wooden play-swords; get mortified when they ask us questions on sex.”

“You don’t feel the same?” Glorfindel asked incredulously, “Eru knows; you have spoilt them rotten.”

“I don’t think they will ever be the same that they were before Elrohir was captured,” Erestor said quietly, “They have fought, they have killed, they have bled. We cannot any longer keep them confined in Imladris. They will not allow it. Already they speak of joining Gildor and the northern rangers led by the Númenorean heir, Arathorn. I am worried; but I would rather that they were roaming the lands with Gildor than alone. Perhaps it is their best chance of survival, when the final battles come. Even Thranduil has let Laiqua fight.”

“Elrond raised his sword for Maglor at a far younger age than Laiqua did for Greenwood. You took up your sword against the orcs when you were younger than Elrond was at his first kill,” Glorfindel sighed, “If anything, I am glad that Elladan and Elrohir were sheltered in the valley safely so far.”

“Glor,” Erestor tangled his fingers in the blonde curls on his friend’s head, “I am sorry that I insisted on accompanying you on that day. That was one of the rare times when you shouted at me. But I have never regretted that my sword tasted the enemy’s blood when I was younger than Laiqua,” he paused, “But I was never driven by bloodlust. For that I am grateful.”

“And so am I. I was afraid that exposing you to blood and battle at such a young age would awaken bloodlust in you,” Glorfindel admitted heavily, “To see your slender form in that thick armour bearing a shining sword, it was hard. Círdan too feared, though he never let you know that.”

“I am grateful that I had you both as my mentors, my foster-parents,” Erestor said sincerely, “What I am now is because of you.”

“I would do anything I could to lift this burden from you, Erestor,” Glorfindel said in a rarely shown solemnity, “But I fear that all I can do is to stand by your side till whatever end.”

“Glor,” Erestor bent down to meet the sapphire-blue gaze, “Would you consider doing something else for my sake if I asked you to?”

“I will not sail,” Glorfindel said evenly, “And you should not even dream of asking me to do that. I shall not. My place is by your side.”

“Círdan loves me as much as you do, but he will sail,” Erestor said pleadingly, “Please, my friend, before it is too late. Sail to my sister. Help her live again.”

“I will not abandon you,” Glorfindel said in a low voice, “Even should you spurn me. I would have bound myself to you that cursed day in Mordor if Elrond had refused to do it, Erestor.”

“I know,” Erestor sighed as he buried his face in the golden hair of his friend, “I am sorry.”

“You should never apologize for what the Valar have wrought upon your bloodline,” Glorfindel said sadly, “We shall meet the fates boldly.”

“Celebrimbor’s daughter, I fear that we shall drag her down with us now. It would have been better if she had stayed in the caves of the dwarves,” Erestor murmured quietly.

“What is Galadriel going to do?” Glorfindel groaned in sympathy, “She liked Celebrimbor the most amongst her nephews. Always preferred to be with him than to come to Gil. Now his daughter, she won’t let her leave. Yet Eleriel…and the matter of Celeborn.”

“I think I can….,” Erestor trailed away, a distant gaze in his dark eyes, “GLOR! That’s it!” he pushed off his friend’s head from his lap and bounded to his feet excitedly, “I need to find Elrond. And ‘Bría! Come, we must hurry.” 

He practically flew out of the room in his excitement, a jubilant expression on his aristocratic features. Glorfindel smiled wryly and shook his head before following his friend out of the room. 

 

Elrond leant back wearily in his chair and surveyed the hastily assembled council before him. Celeborn looked glowing and resplendent as ever in his light blue tunic and leggings, every inch the handsome Prince of Doriath. Glorfindel, clad in brown, looked mildly disbelieving and incredulous. Celebrían, sitting next to her father, looked resolute. Elrond looked across at Galadriel, who looked unconvinced, yet had an ill-concealed desperate hope on her features. Arwen, sitting next to her looked worried. Elrond sighed; so was he.

“So you say that we introduce Lady Arwen as Elrond’s and ‘Bría’s daughter nurtured and sheltered by very over-protective grandparents in Lothlórien?” Celeborn shook his head tiredly, “With due respect, I must say that Elu Thingol was right. Insanity plagues your house. And this far-fetched idea proves it perfectly, My Lord Erestor.”

Elrond opened his mouth to defend Erestor, but shook his head exhaustedly. Even for the Noldor, this was an insane scheme.

“It will work,” Erestor leant forward patiently, “Celeborn, look at it this way. Nobody who knows the truth so far will cross us. And we cannot afford to let anyone else know. With this, we can justify Arwen’s parentage, show everyone that your marriage is fine, and that ‘Bría’s sailing has nothing to do with the rumours. It can be a face-saver for us all.”

“That sounds intriguing,” Celebrían leant forward enthusiastically much to Elrond’s surprise, “But it is risky, not to mention that the people you lead will lose whatever trust they have in you if the deception is exposed.”

“That would be none of your concern,” Erestor smiled sardonically, “Seeing that you will happy and safe in Valinor by then.”

“’Bría,” Celeborn asked incredulously, “Are you actually supporting this mad idea?”

“It will work if we are careful,” Glorfindel said cautiously, “We need to tell Thranduil and a few others the truth so that they can aid us in this. I am sure that they will help us. None of us can afford infighting at this point.”

“I agree,” Galadriel said thoughtfully, “I am willing to see this done. The fact that she resembles Lúthien can be put to Elrond’s ancestry. And since both Elrond and ‘Bría have the blood of Finwë, I don’t think it will be difficult to explain that. I am sure that it will work.”

“Ada,” Celebrían looked across at her father, who shrugged saying, “I am outvoted. I will play along if Thranduil agrees.”

“Elrond?” Erestor asked his friend hopefully, “I know deception and lies are something you hate with all your heart. But we need to do this if we are to keep Arwen safe. Though I cannot deny that there are other benefits too.”

“What does Undómiel say?” Elrond sighed, “We are talking of her after all. It is not right for us to make her decisions.”

Erestor’s black eyes held respect as he nodded and looked towards Arwen. She nervously looked at Galadriel’s set expression and swallowed.

“I will accept what my elders think the best for me,” she said in a quavering voice. 

Elrond leant forward as if to encourage her to speak her mind boldly, but Erestor said hurriedly, “Then we are all in concord.”

“It seems so,” Celebrían smiled relieved, “I shall ride to Imladris with you so that we can introduce ‘our’ daughter to the people. From there I shall leave for Mithlond.”

“I have never deceived anyone in my life,” Elrond said quietly, “And I have no wish to start doing so now. But for all our sakes, I will fall in with the plan.”

“Would you say that you had not bartered the Ring for Erestor’s life that day in Mordor?” Galadriel’s voice penetrated his thoughts sharply, her eyes fixed evenly on him.

Elrond pressed his fingers into his closed eyes and leant back limply, he could practically sense Erestor’s concern flooding the bond. A secret he had meant it to be, Galadriel had unearthed it. He gritted his teeth, she would use it as leverage always. Their gazes met. Her calm eyes held his turbulent stare coolly. 

“What if someone accidentally comes upon the truth?” Arwen asked nervously.

“I will make sure that it does not happen,” Galadriel said quietly, her voice not holding the slightest tremor.

Elrond suppressed a shiver of loathing in his body with much effort. He had forgotten that she too had spilt elven blood in the Kinslayings of Alqualondë. The number of elves she had killed in Fëanor’s mad campaign was probably equal to the toll of Maglor or Fingon. Galadriel had set aside her sword after that, but that did not mean that she would shy away from cold-blooded murder again. She would do what it took to destroy Sauron.

“I will write to Thranduil,” Elrond said in a softer voice, “The plan has my unconditional support.”

 

“You seem occupied,” an amused voice shook Arwen out of her brooding thoughts, “If you make these profound thinking habits a practice, your smooth forehead might get wrinkled.”

“Forgive me,” Arwen turned to face the young prince of Greenwood, “I did not hear your arrival. Is anything the matter?”

“No,” Laiqua smiled and offered his arm to her, “I was merely walking about in the woods. The twins are with the border patrol. The Lord and Lady would not let me ride with the warriors. How are you faring, My Lady Undómiel as Lord Elrond renamed you?”

She looked curiously at his casual, lithe form. She had heard tales of his father, the famed Thranduil Oropherion, who could charm any soul alive with his wit and handsome features. Laiqua did not seem as potent as his illustrious sire. There was softness in his emerald eyes that spoke of compassion and warmth, he reminded her of Elrond. 

“I have been wondering; why do you speak so civilly with the Lady? It is the Lord who is your kin, according to what Elladan told me,” Arwen halted.

“Yes,” Laiqua said agreeably, “Lord Celeborn is my grandfather’s cousin. I have no Noldor blood at all regretfully. So I am in no way related to the Lady. But my father and the lady have a close relationship.” 

“Will you be sailing anytime soon?” she asked quietly, her restraint slipping away reassured by his easy manner.

“No,” he said soberly, “My father will not sail until Sauron is destroyed. And it is my duty and my greatest wish to stand by his side. And you?”

“I do not think I have ever felt the slightest urge to sail. My father’s spirit lingers in these lands. The dwarves raised me, I feel no attraction to Valinor. Lothlórien, here, I feel at peace as I have never felt before…,” she paused, “I would be glad to live in this wonderful place forever.”

“I too feel no call west,” he smiled, “The Sindar rarely do. But my father has a strong sea lust in his veins, the Vanyarin part of him wishes to sail west.”

 

Thalion sighed quietly as the king retired for yet another night of tormented sleep. Thranduil was too proud to ask for help and Thalion knew that he would not be welcomed to help.

“My Lord,” an aide entered, “Lord Gildor Inglorion has come. He wishes to meet King Thranduil.”

“Send him in directly,” Thalion ordered, “The king is yet to retire and Lord Gildor’s arrival must herald something pressing.”

 

Gildor knocked on Thranduil’s doors before entering quietly. The king stood at the balcony, his long hair unbound and free of the restraining crown. He looked younger and more vulnerable, Gildor mused as he cleared his throat to alert his friend of his presence.

“Gildor,” Thranduil turned, an expression of pleasant surprise on his handsome features, “Is it too much to hope that you are well and bear no ill tidings?”

“I bear no ill news,” Gildor smiled as he accepted Thranduil’s warm embrace, the familiar fresh scent of pine lingering in the air about his friend soothed him as always, “Can I not visit an old friend?”

“You rarely do social visits,” Thranduil chuckled as he held his companion at an arm’s distance and looked him over, “Are you hurt?” his expression sobered as he took in the deep gash that ran up Gildor’s wrist deeper into his tunic.

“I am well,” Gildor said breezily, “Mere scratches. I came because I knew you would be lonely. What with Laiqua deciding to stay awhile with Galadriel and Celeborn.”

“He’s growing up,” Thranduil shrugged, “I must reconcile myself to the bare fact that he no longer may wish for my company every moment of his waking life,” he glanced over at the large portraits of his father and his wife that adorned the room, “I suppose I am used to it.”

“Ernil-nîn,” Gildor said gently, “Erestor offered to come and stay over. Why did you refuse him?”

“I…,” Thranduil shrugged as he sat down Gildor on his bed and pulled up the tunic sleeves, drawing a healing salve near with his other hand, “I like him too much, if you know what I mean.”

“So when you kissed him after the dance, it was not merely in jest?” Gildor laughed at Thranduil’s customary bluntness.

Thranduil rolled his eyes, “Both Glorfindel and Elrond would roast me. No, that was an impulse action. I don’t want Elrond and Erestor to be parted now. They have both suffered in their own way for a long time.”

“You should have tried your hand at healing,” Gildor remarked as Thranduil deftly massaged the salve onto his wrist, “You have a better touch than Elrond. He prods like anything. Maybe you can become a healer.”

“Amongst many other things,” Thranduil gave a wry smile, “I think I am quite satisfied with my current workload. Elrond can afford to indulge in his hobbies, Glorfindel is a wonderful army leader and Erestor is an administrator without compare. Wearing the circlet must be Elrond’s sole duty.”

“I shall retire,” Gildor got to his feet and stooped down to press a chaste kiss to Thranduil’s upturned forehead, “We will have a good sparring duel tomorrow. Let us work your worries out.”

“I look forward to it,” Thranduil smiled as he remained seated by the bed, his eyes on Anoriel’s portrait.

Gildor reached the door before turning back to say, “Erestor asked me to pass on a message. It seems like one of his periodic bursts of ill-reasoned humour.”

Thranduil raised an eyebrow inquiringly.

“Ask before the door is closed,” Gildor shrugged, “Don’t demand an explanation from me. You know him.”

“That I do,” Thranduil rubbed his eyes wearily as he settled down for another sleepless night, “He will ask for the Dorwinion if I attempt to demand an explanation.”

Gildor chuckled as he slid the door shut. Thranduil looked up as the sound reached him. 

“Erestor,” he reached out forcefully, hoping against hope that his friend would not shut him out mistaking him for Galadriel.

“Thranduil, what is amiss?” Erestor’s calm voice soothed him.

“Gildor gave me your advice,” Thranduil frowned, “How did you know?”

“I have always known, Ernil-nîn. But will you take my advice?” Erestor asked seriously, “Please. You need some other reason to live than just Laiqua.”

 

“You are far away,” Elrond’s concerned voice startled Erestor and he guiltily turned around to face Elrond with a shaken smile.

“I was talking with Thranduil,” Erestor offered, “Are you angry?”

“I have thought about it,” Elrond smiled wearily, “You are right. It will help us garner some respect in the eyes of the people. Galadriel’s marriage, my marriage, your honour; it smoothens everything. But I confess such elaborate deception sits ill with me.”

“You have always hated the court conspiracies,” Erestor said quietly, “I am sorry that I had no choice but to do this. But Galadriel will not hesitate to kill, you and I know that. I was concerned the most for Arwen’s safety. Imladris is a safer place for her. I fear that Galadriel would rather end Arwen’s life than let it be known that she is Celebrimbor’s daughter at a time when our house is so despised.”

“Glorfindel explained,” Elrond said gently, “You never have to justify yourself to me. I will follow you blindly.”

“On the contrary, Elrond,” Erestor said solemnly, his black gaze lustrous, “I think that I have to justify myself only to you. What anybody else thinks of me never matters in the least.”

Elrond felt a queer burning sensation in the corners of his eyes as Erestor smiled sincerely, the play of emotions across his pale face telling Elrond more than any eloquent speech could. They rarely had the time and the courage to speak more of their love. Their restraint forced them to be careful in public. And the restraint had seeped into their private lives. Their time together was mostly indulged in burning passion and lazy satiation in each other’s arms. Erestor’s simple words were therefore something that took him entirely by surprise.

“Thank you,” Elrond managed to whisper.

 

“May I speak with you?” Galadriel asked her daughter quietly.

Celebrían gave her a cold stare before nodding silently.

“I know that your decision to sail west to Valinor is mostly because of my actions,” Galadriel paused, “I wish to clear things between us before you leave.”

Celebrían made a noncommittal noise in her throat. Galadriel continued in a soft voice, “I was younger than you when I crossed the Ice with my family, when I defied the Valar and my father, when I slew elves in self-defence at the ports of Alqualondë. When we came to these new lands, I hated everything I had done. I spurned my kin and came to Doriath. My cousins and brothers pleaded with me to stay with them. They too regretted the wild killing spree but they had never a chance to start anew. I met your father in Doriath, we loved, we married. When the time came to choose between my kin and my husband, I chose him. We came to Sirion, to Eregion, to Lindon and then to Lothlórien. It was all I wanted. But the curse on my house drew me back. All my brothers and cousins were dead, my nephews were falling. I had to do something.” She broke off and took out an old velvet jewel case.

“My uncle Fëanor was the best of craftsmiths,” she uncovered the case showing an exquisitely carved pendant that glinted in the moonlight, “The clear jewel contains the light of the glowing trees of Valinor, of the stars, of his sparkling eyes, of the Silmarilli that he loved so. I have never been an ideal mother. I don’t think that apologizing for that now would mend anything. It is too late. But I wished to give this to you. It is all I have of him.”

“Thank you,” Celebrían said stiffly though she made no move to touch the pendant, “I think I will not touch anything made by anyone in your house. In their own ways, Fëanor and Celebrimbor have wrought doom upon the elves all over,” Galadriel averted her face as her attempt at peace failed.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” Celebrían continued, “Please give it to Arwen. It is a heirloom of her house. Only Erestor, the twins and she carry the blood of Fëanor. And Erestor has never cared for heirlooms. The twins will not want it. Give it to her.”

 

“Ah!” Elrond remarked as he saw the clear, dazzling brilliant pendant on Arwen’s neck that outrivaled even her own beauty, “Undómiel has a matching jewel. The Pendant of the Evenstar, indeed!”

Celebrían glanced at Arwen ill-at-ease. She did not approve of Arwen’s decision to wear it. Wearing it was honouring her heritage and that, Celebrían felt, would spell only disaster for Arwen. As if mocking her superstitious unease, Fëanor’s pendant sparkled brightly and innocently in the starlight.

* * *

Elladan accepted his friend’s enthusiastic embrace as he leapt off the mount. Laiqua almost crushed his ribs before releasing him with a relieved sigh.

“Laiqua,” Elladan gasped as he massaged his ribs, “Am I to understand that you are bored to Mandos?”

“No,” the prince spoke huffily, “Lady Arwen was good company until she left. Since then Lord Celeborn has been taking me along to the court and on rides with him.”

“Which must have been terribly interesting,” Elladan said teasingly, “If the restrained prince Thranduillion throws himself on me like this, he must be bored.”

“I agree,” Elrohir joined them and enfolded Laiqua in a warrior’s embrace, “We had an excellent patrol this time. Wish you had come.”

“Celeborn would have cut off the tips of my ears,” Laiqua muttered furiously, “Ada still doesn’t want me to return. And Galadriel refused to take me with her to Imladris. Anyway I didn’t wish to go. Your parents were quarrelling like hens in a coop all the way to the borders.”

“Your father did not want his precious leafling back?” Elrohir chuckled, “He must be wooing someone there, Laiqua. That must be his reason to keep you out of his way now. What do you think, ‘Dan?”

“I hope you are right,” Laiqua smiled though his features were strained, “I should certainly not grudge him a life of love after all that he has been through.”

“Yet you do,” Elladan remarked softly, “You don’t wish him to love anyone again.”

“It is not that,” Laiqua said defensively, “It is that, merely that, I am so used to being the centre of his world. If he loves anyone else as he loved Naneth, he would have to love her or him more than he loves me. I don’t want that to happen. Casual affairs, I can bear. But I cannot resign myself to it if he would choose to love again, though I know it is unfair to him.”

 

Thranduil woke up alone again. Mornings were the hardest, he groaned as his left hand moved automatically to his loins to complete the mechanical motions that would grant him release. It made him feel disgusted, yet there was nothing he could do to prevent this grim morning routine. 

He climaxed with a soft cry on his lips, careful of the many chambermaids and valets who shadowed him every moment of his life. Sighing, he wiped his hand on a piece of cloth and threw a loose robe on his frame before leaving his rooms. He had to find his attendant and get his formal robes. Another long day awaited him. He was mentally listing out the tasks he had to get done that he did not notice the footstool left carelessly in the antechamber and tripped. Cursing inventively, he regained his balance and bent over to rub his toes.

“Thranduil,” Gildor’s voice was concerned and amused in equal measure, “What are you doing in such a tantalising position early in the morning?”

“Good Morning,” Thranduil grumbled as he righted himself again, “Had a good sleep, I daresay? You look refreshed.”

“More than I can say for you, my friend,” Gildor said sympathetically, “How long is it since you last slept peacefully?”

“Years, Decades…,” Thranduil shrugged, “I am here. That is what matters now. Shall we get to breakfast. I am waiting for my robes,” he pointed sardonically to the partially open robe he was wearing, “I cannot go to the dining table like this. Ah! They have left it here, come, Gildor, help me get into them.”

“Incredible,” Gildor said teasingly as he helped Thranduil to remove his robe and get into stiff formal attire that was folded neatly on a hanger, “My dear friend, you still look as young as you did all those centuries ago.”

“Glad to hear that,” Thranduil said sardonically, letting his robe pool to his feet. He took in a sharp breath when he noticed the remains of his morning routine on his thighs. 

“Thranduil?” Gildor asked bewildered as he came around. His eyes widened as he saw the evidence of his friend’s morning activities. He blushed ever so slightly before saying nonchalantly, “Glad to see that you are still as fit as ever.”

“Thank you,” Thranduil tried to still the trembling in his fingers as he pulled on his leggings, clasped his robes shut and walked out hastily, “I will expect you at breakfast, Gildor. I have a few errands to see to before I come to the hall. Please proceed.”

Gildor leant back against the mantel and sighed, Thranduil would need a friend to keep the loneliness away from him. Perhaps, if the king was open to the possibility of a lover, Thranduil’s friends and kin could put their worries to rest. His continued abstinence was scary, given his well-known love for carnality.

 

Erestor looked up from Thranduil’s latest missive as Lindir entered wearing an unusually forlorn expression on his features.

“Good evening,” Erestor smiled warmly gesturing his companion to the seat across him, examining carefully the dishevelled hair and untidy attire, “You are coming from the gardens?”

“Yes,” Lindir attempted a wan smile, “I saw the Lady Celebrían. I heard from her that she is leaving the next week for Lindon and from there to the Havens. She wishes to sail.”

“Yes,” Erestor leant back onto his chair and scrutinised the other elf, “I thought that she had told you of this earlier.”

“It will have a terrible effect on the children,” Lindir murmured, “Can she not be persuaded to stay until they understand the situation?”

“The orc poison has weakened her a lot,” Erestor sighed, rubbing his eyes tiredly, “It is in her best interests that she sails, my friend. We will try our best to help the twins cope with her departure…They are old enough to understand the necessity of her leaving immediately.”

“As long as she stays,” Lindir paused, averting his eyes to the desk, “Haldir and the rest of the Sindar and Sylvan nobles will not openly accuse Lord Elrond of infidelity and you of breaking your vows. If she leaves, then you will have no respite from them…and none from Lord Celeborn.”

“I know,” Erestor smiled wryly, “When she leaves, we shall all stop keeping up appearances. It shall be an out and out mudslinging party indeed.”

 

Celeborn paused in his lazy ambling through the forest paths when he heard a clear voice raised in song. He smiled as he closed his eyes and leant against a tree trunk to listen peacefully. Laiqua Thranduillion had inherited Oropher’s clear tones so distinct from Thranduil’s melodious, yet, sensual voice. 

“My Lord,” a familiar voice broke him out of his thoughts.

“Rúmil,” Celeborn turned to face his one-time lover, whom he had treated so despicably. Rúmil stood before him clad in a light brown tunic and leggings, his flaxen hair tied back into warrior’s braids and his quiver strapped to his shoulders.

“I have come to give you the patrol report,” the hazel eyes quickly met his sapphire gaze before darting away. Celeborn sighed; this insecurity, vulnerability; that had been what drew him to Rúmil in the first place. Rúmil had always needed a dominant force in his life. Unlike Galadriel who had never wanted her husband’s aid.

“Thank you,” Celeborn gathered his thoughts and smiled politely, “I hope that you have already met your brothers. They have been worried since you have not joined the archers on patrol for a while.”

“I have not been on patrol since I returned from Imladris,” Rúmil bit his lower lip uncertainly, “Since you deceived me with false promises, My Lord.”

“I…,” Celeborn averted his gaze.

“Nothing you say will change what you have done, My Lord,” Rúmil paused, “The question is, what will you do now?”

“I am not sure, Rúmil,” Celeborn closed his eyes forlornly, “I am thinking of staying away from these emotional tangles. Yet I find I cannot live without them. But Galadriel drained me, Rúmil.”

“You find me attractive?” Rúmil asked in a low voice.

“Nobody would find you unattractive, Rúmil,” Celeborn said sincerely.

“Would you give us a chance?” Rúmil averted his eyes filled with hope and fear, his voice quavering on each word.

“I have harmed you enough by deceiving you,” Celeborn sighed, “I cannot lie to you now however painful it may seem for us both. I loved and love Galadriel in a way that I will love no another. I loved you, I still love you, Rúmil. But it does not compare in the least to the love I bear her.”

“I have never loved anyone as I love you, My Lord,” Rúmil whispered, “And I hoped that at least now, you would be able to finally release your vows to her.”

Celeborn shook his head sadly. He loved Galadriel too much though it had taken a total sundering of minds and bodies to make him realize the truth. He would never love anyone as he loved her.

“If I fade from this,” Rúmil paused, “How would you explain to my brothers that it was not your fault? They are waiting to vote out Galadriel from the council. She is outnumbered and outmanoeuvred in Lothlórien. She is alone,” Celeborn looked at him inquiringly, Rúmil gathered his courage and plunged, “If you are willing to reconsider your words, I can keep Galadriel safe from my brothers’s wrath.”

Celeborn leant back the tree examining the young elf he had deceived, corrupted and embittered. There was a fanaticism in the youth’s eyes that spoke of a will to make his threat true. And certainly, he was right.

“You mean to say that my body will be the price of my wife’s freedom and safety?” he asked harshly, “How could you possibly even have the gall to suggest that?” 

“You had the gall to take your pleasure in me for years while your wife was cold,” Rúmil said viciously, “After using me for your bedwarming, you discarded me like offal and returned to her embrace. Is there any reason why I should even pretend to grieve over your misfortunes, My Lord?”

Celeborn did not reply as he stared mutinously at a piece of twig protruding from a low branch.

“My conditions are simple; take the choice I have given you and Galadriel can continue her noble schemes to save her Noldor house from whatever is rumoured to be destined for them,” Rúmil said coldly, “I will be in my talan, My Lord. And I shall give you time until midnight.”

There was no choice, Celeborn reflected bitterly as he stood under the trees even as Rúmil strode away. He stared up at the clouded skies and sighed; he had never had a choice since the moment he had seen her. 

If his body was going to be the price of her salvation, he would willingly pay it any number of times over. 

He strode determinedly towards the talan, his mind filled with images of her. He would never love another.

 

Elrond took in a deep breath of the sweet night breeze laden with the scent of the roses and honeysuckle. He smiled and started his customary walk in the gardens. He could see Melpomaen teasing Arwen about something in an arbour across him. Shaking his head, he nodded indulgently to them and continued on his way. As he reached the river side, he could hear Erestor’s clear voice arguing passionately. He started grinning; he never tired of hearing Erestor reason and argue.

“You will agree that he cannot be kept in the dark about it,” Glorfindel was saying impatiently. Elrond could see him seated on the large rock overhanging the river.

“I am sure that we will find a way to manage his wrath should it ever arise,” Erestor’s voice was relaxed, as if he was already in the water.

Elrond cleared his throat and strode in, greeting his friends happily, “What is the current topic of debate?” 

“Saruman has spies everywhere,” Erestor shrugged, “Even here. I sent that elf to Thranduil with a missive. And I am assuming the prince will not let him return until he has wrung out whatever he can from the traitor.”

“Why would Saruman want to spy on us?” Elrond raised an eyebrow as he came to sit down at Glorfindel’s feet, “You always suspect everyone,” he rested his head against his friend’s thighs, and lazily took in Erestor’s lithe, pale form cutting sharply through the water, “I wouldn’t put up with you if you hadn’t had those assets,” he smiled suggestively.

Erestor snorted saying, “So you say. But my suspicions have always been proved. Remember Eregion; Remember Mordor…,” he sobered, “Let us hope that for once, I am wrong. Saruman is a clever soul, a very clever soul. I wouldn’t want him as my enemy ever.”

“It is bad to fight one Maia,” Glorfindel sighed, “To fight two would be the best entry pass to Mandos.”

“Aren’t we quite the optimist?” Erestor drawled languidly, “My dearest Glor, spare me the gloomy forecast. And Elrond, Don’t get started on it. We will face it when it comes. For now, enough unto today is the evil thereof.”

“Erestor,” Glorfindel said quietly, “Do you think Galadriel can hold Lothlórien should it come to the worst?”

“She will,” Erestor said seriously, “At whatever personal cost she may have to endure.”

“My lords!” Lindir came running, “Lord Mithrandir here with the Lady Gilraen, Lord Arathorn’s wife. She has come with her child. Her husband has fallen to the orcs.”

Elrond rose to his feet and helped Erestor throw on his robes and then hastily followed his friends to the courtyard. Dozens of Númenorian rangers littered the yard, their faces drawn and pale. A woman stood amongst them, holding a sleeping babe tucked safely in clothes.

Elrond moved nearer and took the child silently from her exhausted form. Glorfindel helped her inside the house. Elrond felt a long lost connection to his twin, separated by mortality and death. The last of Elros’s heirs lay in his arms. He was sure that the elven kingdoms would not last another lifespan of a Númenorian leader. This might be the last heir of his brother that he would foster.

As he looked down upon the child, he felt a pang of sorrowful hope rise in him;

“Estel,” he whispered quietly, “I shall name you Estel, hope.”

 

Thranduil tried to contribute to the jocular, lively conversation at his table. Thalion and Gildor maintained a steady banter all through the meal though he was sure that he was not helping the mood. He looked uneasily at Gildor who had been glancing worriedly at him all day. 

“Prince?” Thalion asked concernedly as Thranduil tried to pick up the knife to carve his meat for the eleventh time.

“I have lost my appetite,” Thranduil smiled apologetically, “I am retiring now, a good night to you both.”

“Thranduil,” Gildor stood up, “There is something I wish to speak of with you.”

“Come then,” Thranduil said unenthusiastically, leading the way to his chambers.

The fire was already lit and threw a warm light over the portraits of Anoriel and Oropher. Thranduil glanced mechanically at them before seating himself on the edge of his bed and waiting for Gildor to speak.

“I am sleeping with you till I leave,” Gildor said without preamble, “And there shall be no arguing unless you want me to send for Elrond. You know that he will have no compunction about mixing you a sleeping draught that would see you asleep for a year!”

“So be it,” Thranduil sighed as he nestled under the covers closing his eyes exhaustedly, “Please, take no offence should I wake up in the morning and startle you with something physical.”

“Go to sleep, Ernil-nîn,” Gildor stooped down to press a kiss onto Thranduil’s cheek before blowing the candles off and sliding into bed. He threw a protective arm about his friend and slid easily into reverie. 

 

Galadriel rode into Lothlórien, a smile lingering on her lips. She had seen off Celebrian till Imladris as had been her intent. She had productive consultations with both Elrond and Erestor. She had met Mithrandir in the Hithaeglir. For the first time in many years, she felt hopeful.

“My Lady,” the marchwarden bowed and led her respectfully to her talan. 

She wondered why Haldir was so attentive to her; he never had been before. He hated her, her ancestry, her Ring, her corruption of Celeborn’s royal bloodline and her treatment of his friend, Celebrían. 

Putting that out of her mind, she placed her travelling bag on the desk and hastily moved to the next talan. She had to see Celeborn and tell him Mithrandir’s news. And she smiled sadly, she had to just see him. She had thought more of him that she had thought of anything else.

“A good day, Galadriel,” Celeborn smiled wanly from his prone position on the couch, “I trust that you had an excellent journey home.”

“Indeed,” she stopped as she saw pain flit across his features before he hastily composed himself again, “What happened?”

“Nothing you should concern yourself about,” he shrugged, “What news from Imladris and Lindon?”

“Celeborn?” Galadriel asked frightened, “What is wrong?”

Hiding secrets from her was hard; he said tiredly, “I took a new lover.”

“What?” she breathed, then composed herself, “But, Celeborn, you look hurt!” she tried to place her hand on his clammy forehead.

“No,” he pleaded, closing his eyes wearily, “Please, Altáriel, leave and let me be. Consider it just desserts for the cruel words I spoke that day.”

“I am a healer,” she whispered, “What good is that skill to me if I cannot heal one who means the most to me?”

“Altáriel, if you value what is left to us, please leave me,” he ordered with quiet dignity, pain and torment clouding his usually clear eyes.

She nodded shakily; he was as proud as she was. And neither of them would give in an inch. To see him brought so low frightened her. Head bowed, she walked away unsteadily.

* * *

Elrond watched Glorfindel and Melpomaen carefully avoid each other’s gaze; a routine of many years. He sighed. What had started as mere infatuation on Melpomaen’s side had grown into a deep, festering sadness on both sides.

“Preoccupied?” Mithrandir asked curiously.

“No,” Elrond sighed.

He returned to the report he had been studying; it told him nothing new. The rangers of the North were wandering aimlessly, carrying the burden of Isildur’s sin. Gildor and his warriors now spent more time on the southern borders of Greenwood, which made Elrond feel less tormented. He worried so for Thranduil even as the threat of Mordor loomed darker. He had not seen his friend since the attack on Dol-Guldor so many years ago. The passes were increasingly dangerous for even large companies of warriors. And the situation had so worsened in Greenwood that Thranduil could not even visit Lothlórien. Only his will kept the evil at bay.

“Thranduil will hold on,” Mithrandir remarked, “His defences are solid on the southern borders. But the wraiths have taken the destroyed fortress and built it anew. Celeborn’s warriors lost a strategic location again. Can’t they do anything right?”

“Really,” Elrond sighed, “Tell me the overall situation. I will apprise Erestor as soon as he gets back from Lindon.”

Mithrandir took in a deep breath, “Sauron has rebuilt Barad-dur, his fortress,” Elrond’s face blanched, “Yes, Elrond…The Southern Kingdoms of men will support him as ever. Gondor has a new Steward, Denethor, who is said to be wise. I found him cunning and well-learned. Well, the wraiths have captured the lands across the river Pelennor. Osgillath is under siege, a deadlock there. To the east, Lake Town and Erebor flourish under Thranduil’s protection. Wild men south of the Anduin cause havoc on the old forest roads. Gildor holds the southern borders together.”

“Lothlórien?” Elrond asked thoughtfully.

“Galadriel is using her Ring more and more with each passing day to hold the borders safe. The warriors are not good enough. Celeborn is weary,” the wizard paused, “I am worried. For now, Lady Arwen is keeping him in goodspirits. They are as close as father and daughter.”

“Bless Arwen; The passes?” Elrond pressed his hand to his head. He had always liked Celeborn more than he liked Galadriel despite everything.

“Are besieged. The doors of Moria haven’t opened for a long time,” Mithrandir’s eyes clouded in doubt, “It worries me. And the twins have cleared out the High Pass for the winter. They are bloodthirsty, Elrond. You should not let them leave on these suicidal missions.”

“The Hithaeglir brings them memories of Elrohir’s captivity,” Elrond sighed, “Erestor and I have begged them to no avail. We trust that their skill and their strong fraternal bond will keep them safe. Every time I hope that their bloodlust has died out, but it hasn’t happened yet.”

“Círdan is weary, worn out and hopeless,” Mithrandir shrugged, “Galdor sails soon. That is the news from the west. And Saruman assures me all is well in the lands of Rohan and Westfold.”

“Erestor still doesn’t like Saruman,” Elrond remarked as they watched the fire playing in the grate.

“We cannot afford to be suspicious of the few allies we have, Elrond,” Mithrandir laughed, “What we have, is what we can get.”

“Try telling him that,” Elrond smiled wryly, “He refuses to come even a mile near Estel; saying that the lad might turn into Isildur, his ancestor at any moment.”

“He was deeply hurt,” Mithrandir said quietly, “He cannot be blamed for the lack of trust in Isildur’s progeny.”

 

Galadriel smiled as she saw Arwen and Celeborn riding into Caras Galadhon together. They seemed content and happy, a mix that was increasingly becoming rarer on Celeborn’s face. She watched as Arwen leapt off her stallion and patted its head lovingly. Celeborn slid off with casual grace and stretched his limbs, looking every inch as coltish and handsome as he had been when she had first met him in Doriath.

The expression on his face altered subtly as he tensed. Rúmil entered the glade and possessively entwined his hand within Celeborn’s. Arwen looked uneasy, but at a nod from Celeborn, she bowed and left, her beautiful face a study in fear. Rúmil coiled his arms around Celeborn’s stiff body and drew their lips together for a deep kiss. 

Galadriel looked away. She had always known of Celeborn’s need for passion in a relationship. But right now, he looked pained and distant, as if detaching his mind from his body. From what she knew of him, he had always been a dominant personality. Then why would he give in so obediently to Rúmil’s every whim?

Half of Lothlórien had walked in on the pair in the last few years. They had no inhibitions, coupling whenever and wherever the fancy took them. She shook her head, it was not Celeborn’s way. And there had been the fact that he was always the subservient partner. Had his world-weariness and burdens made him become so desperate to lose control?

She was still lost in her thoughts when he entered the talan, hastily trying to cover fresh bruises on his neck with his hair. That was another point, she thought worriedly. Coupling usually made him look younger, but these days he looked wearier after a session of lovemaking with Rúmil.

“Círdan has sent a missive,” he said quietly, his eyes worried as he read the scroll, “It seems that Galdor is sailing. For now, Erestor is ruling Lindon.”

“Perhaps Elladan could be persuaded to put aside his orc-killing and take charge in Lindon,” she said thoughtfully, “It is more than time that he took on princely duties. If he agrees, Elrohir will follow suit. And that will take half the worry off from Elrond and Erestor.”

“When will you leave for Thranduil’s court?” he asked with suppressed anxiety, “I would need to put together an escort.”

She looked at his averted eyes and said sincerely, “You would benefit from a change. Why don’t you go to him this time?”

Celeborn looked up anxiously, “No!” , he could not let her be alone with Haldir and the rest of the Sylvan and Sindar nobles who were lying dormant just because of his presence.

“You could take Rúmil along with you,” she said her voice shaking slightly, “If your reluctance is because you don’t wish to be parted.”

“I appreciate your concern,” he sighed, “But, please, I cannot leave Lothlórien now. You go, Thranduil will appreciate the company. I am quite happy here. And anyway going to an orc-infested forest is hardly likely to raise my spirits.”

Their eyes met for a long moment, her blue eyes searching his clouded ones for an explanation silently.

“I cannot leave,” he began again.

“You are weary,” she accused flatly, “This relationship with Rúmil is not doing you any good.”

“You have no right to judge my liaisons,” he sneered defensively, “After all, you released me from the vows a long while before!”

“Celeborn,” she entreated, “I would never trespass. But I wanted you to know that,” she halted uncertainly, “that…I care for your happiness. What is wrong? Please, I will do whatever I can to help.”

“Thank you,” he managed a faint smile, “Now, I will see to your escort. Please be safe.”

 

“My Lord,” Thalion entered the study, “You wished to see me urgently?”

“Drop the titles,” Thranduil waved impatiently, “I have a missive from Ingwë. He has accepted my request to send all our women and elflings across to Valinor. He will send ships to the Havens. I want you to impose a rule; that all the unwed women and children will journey to the Havens as soon as Gildor can provide an escort.”

“Thranduil?” Thalion whispered, “You are sending him away?”

“Laiqua is a prince; he shall lead the contingent to Valinor,” Thranduil said briskly, “As a King, I expect his obedience to my wishes.”

“He is at the borders now,” Thalion said quietly, “I will not make the proclamation until he returns to the castle. The twins and Elrond’s fosterling, Estel, are with him now. If he hears of this, he may as well as run away with them to the wilds.”

“Well, that be done then,” Thranduil let his gaze wander over to the window, “That is all, Thalion.”

“You refused to leave your father’s side. What makes you think that he will act any differently?” Thalion persisted.

“I am not the sentimental, doting father that my Ada was. I will do whatever callous action I may have to, but I am sending him across the sea,” Thranduil shrugged.

 

"Erestor,” Círdan said pensively as Erestor returned from the harbour, having said farewell to Galdor, “Thranduil has written to me saying that he wishes to send all his unwed womenfolk and children across the sea.”

“Yes,” Erestor sighed, “We agree on that, My Lord. The evil grows and we cannot defeat it by mere force. We don’t have the warriors to launch a war anymore, we must defend what we can. Elrond and Galadriel are using the Rings to the maximum extent possible and it is wearing them out. Thranduil too, has been much taxed.”

“I am sailing with Thranduil,” Círdan sighed as Erestor looked up startled, “Oropher was kin to me. And Thranduil has ever had a place in my heart. I will sail with him.”

“He will not sail unless we do,” Erestor whispered, “My Lord!”

“Yes,” Círdan said quietly, “It goes for me too. I will not sail unless you do.”

“Please,” Erestor clasped his hands in supplication and begged, “Don’t make this decision, My Lord. Too many have we dragged down by our tainted blood.”

“I had always known that I could not abandon you and sail away,” Círdan shook his head, “This is not your doing, young lord. It is my choice. I have at least the grace of Ulmo. You know that we will have a better chance of reaching Valinor if we sail together than you sailing alone.”

“My Lord, you have been the father-figure in my life,” Erestor begged once more, “Please leave us to our sins and escape us while you can.”

“If you had been in my place, would you have acted any differently?” Círdan asked quietly.

 

“So, Lord Elrond was saying that his mother jumped into the sea and then Maedhros came to prevent him and his twin from diving in after her,” a teenaged Estel finished excitedly, “Do you think, Laiqua, that he was speaking the truth?”

“Elves don’t lie,” Laiqua shrugged with casual elegance, unaware of the appreciative looks that his fellow warriors directed towards his supine form on the grass, “But half-elves may.”

“Laiqua,” Elladan threw a small stone at the prince, “That is a low hit!”

“Prove me wrong,” Laiqua raised an eyebrow, “I could give you at least a hundred different occasions when you have lied cheaply!”

“Indeed?” Elrohir snickered, “I might be eager to hear tales!”

“’Ro!” Elladan cursed, “Don’t side with the haughty princeling. He is unbearably smug as it is!”

“Are you older than Laiqua, ‘Dan?” Estel asked curiously.

“Older,” Elladan nodded.

“And wiser,” Elrohir chimed in, prompting Laiqua to throw a handful of dirt at him.

“Envious, aren’t we?” Elrohir chuckled.

“Look who’s talking!” Laiqua snorted, “I remember that I was able to down you twice in the last strategy game we had, Oh Wise One!”

“That was because your sneaky father taught you some underhanded tricks,” Elladan accused, “He has no sense of fairness at all!”

“Ask Lord Erestor to teach you underhanded tricks,” Laiqua sniggered smugly, “Valar knows; he is quite skilled in them!”

“He would,” Elrohir shrugged, “If it weren’t for Ada Elrond shooting him deathglares whenever he tries to teach us those. It seems we are supposed to be noble.”

“Then you’ll never win,” Laiqua remarked, “Pity! So, have you started lessons with Lord Erestor, Estel?”

“I have rarely seen him,” Estel said quietly.

Laiqua sat up and looked enquiringly at Estel, who averted his eyes. The twins coughed as one and began to examine the hilts of their swords.

“It is time to leave for the castle, My prince,” a warrior came, “The next patrol has arrived.”

 

“Am I intruding?” Lindir asked quietly as he approached Mithrandir, who was hunched over a large map in the library.

“Of course not,” the wizard smiled, “May I help you?”

“Since Lord Erestor is not home, we usually close the library at nights,” Lindir said apologetically, “And as you are the only one remaining here…I thought I would leave the keys with you.”

“Any particular reason why you lock the library?” Mithrandir frowned.

“There are a lot of traders and travellers visiting Imladris. And most of the books here are too valuable to be lost; the history of Ages,” Lindir sighed, “Lord Erestor is adamant in never locking the library. He would post guards all night to ensure the safety of the archives and the books. But he would never consent to close the reading room. Since he is not here, Lord Glorfindel has drafted the soldiers into the troops and is ill-inclined to let them stand guard at a library. So we close it.”

“I am nearly done here; for today,” Mithrandir carefully put away the scrolls he had been perusing and stood up, “We can lock the rooms.”

“Thank you,” Lindir said gratefully, “I was afraid that you might take offence.”

“No, of course!” Mithrandir said hastily, “It is just that the libraries of Imladris are never locked.”

“Please don’t tell Lord Erestor; he would be furious,” Lindir remarked.

“I am leaving for Lothlórien tomorrow,” Mithrandir paused before his chambers, “Would you consent to join me? It’s sad that you have never left the borders of Imladris even once after settling here.”

“I am happy here,” Lindir bowed and left the wizard silently.

 

“Lord Celeborn?” a tentative Arwen peeped into his study.

“Come in, Undómiel,” he smiled warmly, “What brings you to decidedly the most boring place in Lothlórien?”

“You,” Arwen hesitated, “You have not been eating or sleeping since she left the day before yesterday.”

“I have had no time, Arwen,” Celeborn smiled easily, the usual mask of grace falling back onto his face, “I assure you that it is not because Lady Galadriel has left.”

“How can you make me believe that when you don’t believe it yourself?” Arwen sighed as a flash of emotion lit up in Celeborn’s eyes before dying as suddenly as it had come. 

 

“So,” Thranduil let his son kiss his signet ring before drawing him into a loose embrace, “I take it that the patrol was uneventful.”

“Except for the mundane killing of a dozen orcs and twenty or so wargs,” Laiqua quipped as he sat down to his father’s right.

“And are you well?” Thranduil smiled warmly at Elladan and Elrohir, “It has been a long while since I had the pleasure of your company here.”

“This time,” Elladan pulled Estel before him with great pleasure, “We introduce Estel, our foster-brother to you, Lord Thranduil.”

“He has just come of age,” Elrohir explained, “And we thought of taking him on a celebratory picnic.”

“In an orc-infested forest?” Thranduil raised an eyebrow, “Well, Elrond once told me that being enslaved by slave traders would be an exciting experience…So I will not ask where your sense sprouts from. For now,” he smiled at Estel, “Let us celebrate Estel’s first of hopefully many visits to this forest.”

Estel watched curiously. Thranduil seemed to be in some way, more enchanting and fairer than Laiqua. Together, they were a charismatic duo. He glanced across at the twins. They looked weary and haggard after the latest orc-hunt they had led in the Hithaeglir. There were deep shadows lingering in their eyes and thirst for revenge radiated from them.

“So, you are of age, Estel?” Thranduil asked amusedly, regarding the lad over a goblet of wine, “Have you taken a lover yet?”

Estel blushed even as the twins laughed at what seemed to Thranduil’s customary style of conversation.

“No?” Thranduil asked with mock horror, “You must rectify it, Estel. The twins went to bed a partner the moment they finished their coming-of-age vows! I remember a twin who so boldly propositioned Laiqua’s mother.”

“My Lord!” Elladan grumbled.

“And Laiqua?” Estel asked laughing, enjoying the good-natured ribbing.

“I am yet underage,” Laiqua made a face at his father, “Ada, weren’t you underage when you took you first lover?”

“I will not answer such impertinent queries,” Thranduil glared over the rim of his goblet, “Now, Estel, is there anyone who have caught your fancy so far?”

“No,” Estel smiled, even as the twins chortled, “I am yet to see many women.”

“Women?” Thranduil raised an eyebrow disbelievingly, “I cannot believe that anyone with Elrond’s blood would prefer women!”

Laiqua bent over to whisper an urgent message to his father, who nodded understandingly, before saying jovially, “Elrond has always preferred celibacy to women.”

The twins shot Laiqua a thankful look. Estel wondered what Thranduil had let slip unknowingly. Something to do with Elrond.

 

“Ada, he is naïve,” Laiqua chided his father as he walked into his father’s chambers, “And they are most discreet. Now you have given the poor lad ideas about them.”

“I will warn Elrond,” Thranduil sighed, “I thought it was one of those secrets that everybody knew of.”

“Really, Ada,” Laiqua rolled his eyes as he plopped down on the large bed, “Now, aren’t you bored to sleep here alone?”

“Who said that I sleep here anyway?” Thranduil raised an eyebrow, “I am keeping the bed for purposes of my reputation. I ordered made a smaller, useful bed a while ago. Now, Laiqua, I must tell you something. I have obtained a grant from Ingwë. All our women and children can sail west. Círdan is ready.”

“What?” Laiqua asked incredulously, “Ada, what are all the husbands and sons going to do if you send the womenfolk across?”

“I don’t care,” Thranduil said quietly, “I want our people safe. This is what I can do utmost right now.”

“Ada, I know you are right. But even if they are willing to go, who will lead them? We are short of commanders as it is” Laiqua pointed out.

“Why else would I bother making a heir?” Thranduil said testily, his eyes watching his son’s face carefully.

Laiqua met his father’s gaze evenly. They stood for several long moments facing each other before the prince took in a deep breath and spoke quietly,

“Ada, I will not sail unless it is by your side,” he continued, “Arguing will not serve. Even if you bind me to a ship, I shall not sail. I would rather drown in the sea and perish than walk on the shores of Aman while you toil in these lands.”

“I would not have suggested this had I been confident of victory. I cannot even protect you, Laiqua. I was not able to protect my father and my wife. I will not let the same befall you,” Thranduil said steadily.

“It is my choice to stand beside you and fight for freedom,” Laiqua said quietly, “I love you, Ada. And I shall not leave you of my own will.”

 

“Such a pensive expression on your beautiful face, what may be the reason?” Thalion teased Galadriel as she joined him in the healing chambers, “Sad that we did not arrange a large, royal reception for you?”

“I forfeited all that when I absolved my vows to the royal prince of Doriath,” Galadriel laughed, “Now I am merely a student come to learn from the great Healer, Thalion.”

“I demand payment,” Thalion said with mock solemnity, “After all, my wisdom is too precious to be shared with all and sundry, you will agree.”

“Certainly,” Galadriel smiled, “But, pray, do not ask for a lock of my hair. I would go bald if the trend continues.”

“Your hair will interest only the dwarves,” Thalion remarked sardonically, “Now, tell me what worries you so.”

“Celeborn,” Galadriel rubbed her wrists forlornly, “He is the reason for my worry usually.”

“What has he done now?” Thalion asked sympathetically, “I heard of Rúmil and him and their exploits,” he paused uncertainly, “We cannot do anything, Galadriel. After all, you absolved his vows.”

“That is what I am worried about,” Galadriel sighed, “Their exploits are not to Celeborn’s taste, I think. I don’t know…I am simply worried for him.”

“Why would his new habits worry you so?” Thalion asked chidingly, “He is more than wise enough to take care of his own interests. Trust me, people crave for novelty as they age.”

 

Glorfindel embraced Gildor saying, “I had hoped that you would come before the winter.”

“It was impossible,” Gildor sighed, “Thranduil is bearing the brunt of the skirmishes. I must return soon. I came now just because Galadriel has taken on charge as the counsellor. It has left Thalion free to commandeer the troops.”

“Come then, I will take you to Elrond,” Glorfindel said quietly, “The twins and Estel have left Greenwood. Did you not run into them anywhere?”

“Not on the high pass. They must have crossed before me. You know Elladan, he loves choosing the longer paths,” Gildor shrugged wearily, “They must have ended up at some human village to celebrate Estel’s rise to manhood. Erestor has not come yet?”

“He is still on the roads. A large part of the escort has stayed on in Lindon. Thranduil and Imladris are sending caravans of our people west to Mithlond. Círdan is ready to take them west,” Glorfindel said quietly.

“So this is when we take to the sword again,” Gildor said softly.

 

Erestor arrived at dawn the day after. The twins and Estel had arrived earlier in the eve. So, they sat for breakfast together, Elrond’s table crowded more than usual.

Estel looked curiously at the obsidian-haired, dark-eyed, pale lord who sat beside Elrond. Erestor Maglorion. Estel took in the sharp Fëanorian features which he had seen in many a portrait on the walls of the mansion.

“Ada!” Elladan cheerily came to press a sloppy kiss to Erestor’s sharp-boned cheek, “Missed you.”

“Must you do that?” Erestor chided him half-heartedly even while smoothing back Elladan’s unruly hair affectionately, “Where is Elrohir? I checked in on you when I arrived. You were both asleep”

“Sleeping off the ale we had last night,” Elladan sighed dramatically, “We have inherited Ada Elrond’s head. Hangovers are most painful.”

“I don’t think Elrond has ever tried ale,” Erestor smiled, “He is too wise.” 

Estel watched him intently, even as Erestor spoke to Elrond in a low, melodious tone all through their breakfast. Though he could make out the syllables, he did not recognize the words spoken.

“Quenya,” Glorfindel informed the lad, “They speak only in the ancient tongue.”

“But isn’t it forbidden?” Estel asked him bewildered, “That is what Melpomaen taught me.”

“It is not forbidden,” Erestor’s smooth voice cut in suavely, “It has been merely forgotten.”

Estel watched the black eyes carefully appraising him for something before Erestor glanced back at Elrond again. The dark, inscrutable depths of those eyes had softened as he spoke with Elrond. Estel watched the transformation curiously.

“Why would the elven-kind forget such a melodious tongue?” Estel wondered aloud even as conversation at the table fell silent, “It is wrought by the Valar!”

“Quenya was wrought by Fëanor,” Elrond said quietly, “I believe that was the reason why the elves were keen to forget it, and switched to Sindarin.”

“Yet, you speak this tongue,” Estel said softly, “I have heard Lord Thranduil conversing in this tongue too. Would you teach me?”

“No,” Elrond said with a deep sigh, “It is a blood language. It seeps into your blood. Everything that Fëanor wrought carried a part of his spirit,” he paused, “Including this language.”

“So it carries his doom,” Estel whispered in the hushed room, filled with an intangible tension, “Why then would you want to speak it?”

Elrond shrugged elegantly saying, “I was taught that steeped in the ancient tongue is our past. And it will ring in our future. It is powerful…”

 

“The old that is strong does not wither,  
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.”

* * *

Erestor absently watched the large shoal of fish swimming upstream even as he thought of the situation in Middle-Earth. 

“What do you think makes them do that?” Elrond asked quietly, as he joined Erestor on the bridge, leaning subtly towards his companion.

“What?” Erestor asked bewildered.

“Swimming against the current,” Elrond remarked, “It’s probably futile and a waste of effort. They might end up downstream again.”

“True,” Erestor looked about the woods and then took Elrond’s hand in his own, raising it to his lips for a chaste kiss, “But they make the effort. That is worth it.”

“Sometimes, I compare our situation to that of the fish. We toil without hope,” Elrond sighed.

“The fish toil with hope, Elrond. Always, they hope that they will swim upstream,” Erestor corrected gently.

“Still it is a futile hope,” Elrond said wistfully.

“It is as Mithrandir says, a fool’s hope. And he has always been a believer in a fool’s hope,” Erestor chuckled wryly even as Elrond smiled grudgingly at the comment.

 

Estel caught his breath in astonishment as he remembered Elrond smile and draw his arms about Erestor lazily, a contented expression on his austere features. Suddenly, Thranduil’s words made sense to him.

“I cannot believe that anyone with Elrond’s blood would prefer women!”

Estel leant back against the tree he had been resting underneath trying to control his shock; Elrond Peredhel did not prefer women at all. Strangely enough, it had taken him years after the particular episode in the woods that he had seen in his youth to realize that.

“You are preoccupied,” Elladan remarked as he finally tracked down his foster-brother, “What makes you so thoughtful?”

“I was thinking of Lord Elrond…When I saw the bridge there, it reminded me of the time when I had seen him on the bridges of Imladris,” Estel hedged.

“Ada Elrond?” Elladan asked curiously, “He rarely walks on the bridges.”

“Lord Erestor was with him,” Estel said quietly, watching his companion’s face change from cheerful nonchalance to wary neutrality. 

“Yes, that explains it,” Elladan said after a long pause, “They like to take long walks in the woods while discussing matters of the administration and the heavier concerns.”

“Why do you call them both ‘Ada’?” Estel asked hesitantly. 

It was a question that he had learnt never to ask in Imladris. People like Glorfindel usually changed the discussion topic. Melpomaen and Lindir would leave the room remembering a sudden errand. Elrohir usually flew into a rage. And as Elladan had a more violent temper than his twin, Estel had never asked him so far. But now, curiosity gnawed at him unrelentingly. He had to know.

“They were both there for us; our Naneth left us while we were but babes,” Elladan said carefully, with a face that Estel had seen only while Elladan was at the negotiating tables, “I have always considered them my parents.”

“I heard rumours in Rohan while I was wandering there,” Estel said cautiously, watching Elladan for any signs of rage, “They were sordid.”

“In what way?” Elladan asked blandly.

“Nothing,” Estel said hastily as he recognized the familiar hatred rise in Elladan’s revenge-thirsty eyes.

 

Galadriel walked to the door and knocked softly. It was past his usual retiring time. But since she had seen Rúmil on patrol duty at the northern borders, she felt bold enough to come here at this time. She had wanted to see him immediately. She smiled wistfully, she had not seen him in nearly an year.

She frowned when there was no response to her incessant knocking. Perhaps, she thought worriedly, Rúmil had left the borders to spend the night with him. Perhaps, he had seen her arrive and did not wish to meet her. Perhaps…

She paused her knocking when a low sound of a familiar voice cursing arose from the chambers. She stood irresolutely for a moment, perhaps he was in the middle of something she had no wish to interrupt at all. She shook her head and left hastily. She did not think that she would survive a repeat performance of his deliberate cruelty with her sanity intact.

She was walking to her private gardens when she bumped into a solid frame, a bearded solid frame.

“Mithrandir,” she said relieved as she identified the person, “What brings you here in the middle of the night?”

“I am leaving for Saruman’s lands immediately, they say that he has some clue regarding the Ring,” he paused, “I wished to seek your counsel before that…How do you know if it is the ring?”

“Elrond is sure that Isildur would have known,” she said thoughtfully, “That is a theory I am inclined to endorse. Seek your answers in Gondor, they have an impressive collection of archives, from what Gildor once told me.”

“I will,” he nodded, “And I carry a missive from Círdan; Lady Celebrían,” he handed her a tightly scrolled up parchment, bearing the distinctive fragrance of the woodlands of Aman.

She inhaled deeply, the memories of her youth wafting into her mind even as the scent wafted into her nostrils. Regrets, pride, grief and determination flashed across her features successively.

“I will see to it that her missive reaches her father,” she spoke calmly.

“Thank you,” he nodded, “That is one errand accomplished then. I shall be leaving now, unless you wish to discuss anything more.”

“Please,” she smiled sincerely, “The roads are dangerous. At least now, one of our patrols will be riding out. You can accompany them till the borders. By then it might be dawn, and your road might be safer.”

“My road is Rohan, the Fangorn and thence to Isengard,” he assured her, “I am sure I will be safe.”

 

She rushed into Celeborn’s talan, bearing their daughter’s epistle. He had worried endlessly about Celebrían for long days and nights that Galadriel wanted to set his fears to rest as soon as she could.

This time around, her knocking was received with an unenthusiastic, “Come later.”

“It’s Galadriel, My Lord,” she called, “A letter for you, from Celebrían.”

“Leave it under my door, please,” his reply came swiftly, though she could recognize hope and curiosity in his voice.

“I cannot,” she took her chance, “There is a matter I must discuss with you before that.”

She heard a string of long curses before he opened the door and peered wearily at her, looking as if he had been indulging in poor ale all that day. His silvery hair, that she loved so much, was hanging limply, unkempt and matted. His shoulders were slumped in exhaustion; there was an expression of abject turmoil in his sapphire eyes which he tried to conceal hastily from her. The light overrobe that he had thrown on hurriedly did little to hide the discolorations and bruises on his neck and wrists.

“Have you been in a skirmish?” she asked alarmed.

“No,” he shrugged uncomfortably, pulling his robes tighter, “What was the matter that could not wait?”

“I just wanted to give the letter,” she handed the scroll, “And I thought I might see you too, it has been almost a year,” she knew she sounded rather petulant.

“It is three days short of a year,” he said with a wry smile, noting with pleasure the expression of surprised happiness that flitted across her face, “I am glad to see you, I trust Thranduil and Laiqua are well?” he stood back to suppress the sudden, unreasonable urge to embrace her.

“They are well enough,” she smiled as she stepped into the room past him. he suppressed a mental groan, she had probably misunderstood his stepping away as an invitation to enter.

He took the scroll from her and said hopefully, “You might wish to retire, of course. It is late and you have had a long journey. If you are too tired, then I wouldn’t mind if you wish to leave.”

“No,” she said hastily, “I mean,” she cast about her eyes for a plausible reason to stay, “I mean, I am not too tired. I wish to speak with you for some more time, if you wouldn’t mind,” he opened his mouth to speak again, but she hurriedly cut in, “I saw Mithrandir; he thinks Saruman has some clue to the whereabouts of the ring.”

“That would be a piece of unlooked-for-luck,” he said fervently, rubbing his bruised neck with absent-minded distraction, “I hope he is right. The situation is quite grim. Take a seat.”

She nodded and walked to the couch. She gasped as she saw the fresh bloodstains on the covers and turned to face him.

“It’s nothing,” he hastily assured her as he pulled forth a chair for her, “I forgot that…”

“You are hurt,” she said softly as she saw the matching stain on the rear of his robes, she met his pleading eyes with alarm, “What happened?”

“Rough coupling,” he averted his eyes, she reddened, “Which is why I asked you to see me tomorrow. I knew you would be disgusted.”

“I am not!” she exclaimed, his eyes widened in surprise at her words.

“I won’t pry into your relationships,” she continued self-consciously, “But I am worried that you will not seek a healer’s aid after your…your activities,” she finished lamely.

“I will be grateful if you decide to change the topic,” he said quietly, “It is no longer your concern what I indulge in.”

“Celeborn,” she said gravely, “I will not stand by and watch you destroy your body for something like this. Indulge in all you wish, but see a healer when you are harmed, this is all I ask.”

“I will,” he said wearily, “I promise you that.”

“You know that I cannot leave you now without knowing if you would be all right till the morning…Shall I summon a healer for you now?” she asked earnestly, “You are in pain, Celeborn, and there is no reason why you should bear it till the morning.”

“It is not as bad as you fear,” he tried to reassure her, “Now, why don’t you try to get some rest? You are expected to make a report in the council tomorrow.”

“Please,” she tentatively gripped his wrist in her hands, “I will not find the least of rest when I leave you thus.”

His eyes blazed with fury, regrets and pain as he said coldly, “You asked for this. If you will be satisfied with nothing but the total destruction of the little we have left between us now, then I shall not oppose you.”

Their eyes met in a silent duel, her apprehensive, yet, calm gaze holding his disturbed, turmoil-filled eyes with resolution. Finally, he averted his gaze and walked over to bed chamber, his gait stiff and pained. She followed him, gathering her courage with melancholy determination.

He did not speak again as he slid underneath the rich, silken coverlet and slipped off his robe. He turned away to the other side, facing away from her as he dragged up the coverlet to his waist, leaving his lower body bare. 

She bit her lips tightly to prevent the gasp that threatened to escape them. With the healing experience of centuries, she was able to detach herself from her emotions and reached for the bag of herbs that she carried about with her. She forced herself not to curse Rúmil as she took in the mutilated, hideous condition of the once magnificent body. Focussing herself on the immediate task, she selected the required herbs and began squeezing their essence onto the more grievous of his wounds.

He hissed in pain as the sting pervaded through his weary body. A shaking hand smoothed his hair even as another spread salves and balms onto his battered body. He shivered involuntarily as the memories seeped through his mind. She began humming softly as she worked further southwards, easing his cramped muscles with her skilled fingers. Her fingers…he relaxed willingly into her touch.

A tear escaped her as she felt the trusting surrender of his body to her healing skills. She spoke softly, “Would you allow me to --?”

He nodded, burying his face in his bed covers, his whole frame shaking uncontrollably with suppressed emotions. She felt more tears fall down her cheeks as her fingers tried to soothe the damage wrought at the site of the bleeding with salves and herbs. He squirmed under her hands, trying to not let his pain surface again. She finished her ministrations with trembling fingers and drew down the coverlet to cover his lower body.

They did not speak for a long while. She stared at her fingers horrified by the blood on them, his blood. He continued facing the opposite wall, refusing to turn and meet her gaze.

“Celeborn,” she started finally, her voice quavering, “The next time you get hurt so badly, please don’t wait so long. Send for me. I would my best to protect your privacy and I shall never ask you any question regarding the injuries.”

“You must be satisfied; you have found a reason to hate me more,” his voice was muffled by the covers.

“Even if I did find a hundred good reasons to hate you, I cannot,” she said exhaustedly, “I only wish that you stay happy; that at least you escape from my doom.”

“For good or else, you are my doom,” he said with weary conviction, “Why did I learn to love you?” he turned to meet her gaze in deep anguish, “Why did I never learn to stop loving you? If I had learnt that, I would not be in this condition….” he trailed away.

“What do you mean?” she asked with rising alarm on her features.

“Nothing,” he said shortly, “Thank you for your ministrations. I think you should leave.”

“If you wish for anything while you are resting…” she began hesitantly, taking his hand in both of hers.

“Leave,” he said quietly, though he made no movement to withdraw his hand from her grip, “I have three days to recover; he will return only on the fourth morning.”

“Celeborn,” she whispered shakily, seeing the all too familiar grief and fury pass across his face, she shook her head and squeezing his hand once again, she rose and left quickly.

 

“Mithrandir has left a letter from ‘Bría,” Gildor proclaimed as he entered the room, “For you and Erestor,” he shoved a tightly scrolled parchment underneath Elrond’s nose.

“What?” Elrond leant back disbelievingly, he took the scroll even while examining Gildor for injuries with a feigned appearance of natural curiosity.

“You have caught the ‘dissimulation-disease’ from him; sleeping together does that, I see,” Gildor smirked, “The twins should be warned.”

“We have not been sharing rooms,” Elrond said angrily, “He has taken it into his stubborn head that Estel might react rather explosively if the lad discovers our true relations.”

“A pity,” Gildor yawned, “The twins and I walked in on Celeborn in a glade in Lothlórien engaged in the filthiest possible acts with that arm-candy of his. Learn something from him; the old silver tree doesn’t know the meaning of the words ‘inhibition’ or ‘decorum’. He’s worse than a rutting animal.”

“I heard tales,” Elrond sighed, “I am glad that ‘Bría did not see all these…She loves her father so,” he unfurled the letter, “Saw Erestor on the way?”

“The twins waylaid him; I am sure they will end up here soon,” Gildor said as the sound of loud boots reached them, “They come then…Arwen is with us, Elrond. Galadriel decided to send her here after the poor child walked in on Celeborn and the Sylvan.”

“Glorfindel was complaining he had nobody to pamper,” Elrond rolled his eyes, “He can certainly spoil Arwen with his outdated manners.”

“Gildor,” Erestor laughed happily as he rushed in to embrace his friend, “I was half-afraid the twins might gobble you up during the return journey. They were so famished that they finished off the lunch for the entire council that was scheduled to have a meeting in my study!”

“You look harried,” Gildor remarked as he pushed away Erestor to an arm’s distance and looked him over carefully, “And here I was thinking that the twins suffered from the lack of food and sleep on the trails.”

“Ada,” Elladan walked in cheerily to embrace Elrond, who sighed seeing the state of gaunt emaciation of his son. 

He held Elladan firmly in his embrace and looked over the twin’s shoulder. Elrohir was standing next to the table, staring sickly at the letter, neatly addressed to Elrond in his mother’s hand. Elrond saw pain flit across his younger son’s face. Elrohir had never understood her reasons to leave. He felt betrayed that she had treated his sacrifice for her safety so callously.

“Elrohir,” Erestor cut in, “Where is Arwen? You didn’t race your twin to the valley and leave her behind on the trail, did you?”

“No,” Elrohir smiled faintly, tearing his eyes away from the letter, “Glorfindel helped her dismount; and I daresay he has already succeeded in spiriting her off till dinner, Ada.” He glanced at the letter once more before shaking his head imperceptibly and walking over to embrace Elrond.

 

Celeborn grimly opened his daughter’s letter and began reading in the low lamplight,

 

“Dearest Ada,

I hope that this letter reaches you somehow. I live in the court of Finarfin; my grandfather...I wished to stay with your kin, as I have always preferred them over the Noldor. But the Sindar had no wish to see the daughter of a Noldor kinslayer in their midst.

There is much I would wish to tell you…firstly, now I understand at least a small portion of the grief, regrets and endurance that my mother is. You were right, Ada. She has suffered as nobody should suffer. I pity her, I understand that in her own way, she loved me as much as she was able to. I can only say that we might be a family again when the two of you sail west soon. Many of the Sindar and Sylvan subjects of Thranduil are coming here. They stay in Alqualondë or in the lands of Ingwë. So I hope that Naneth and you too can sail soon.

I have always loved you, Ada. But after knowing what you sacrificed to be with Naneth, I find that my respect and admiration for you has crossed many boundaries. I am proud to be your daughter.

I will wait on the harbour everyday, hoping to see you both on a white ship.  
Ever,  
‘Bría.”

 

“I wonder why she sent letters now…after all the time that has passed since she sailed,” Glorfindel wondered as they sat in the cosy library.

“It is not allowed anymore for those who live in the lands of Valinor to correspond with us,” Gildor shrugged, “Manwë’s edict. Círdan is breaking a lot of edicts thesedays.”

“I worry for him,” Erestor murmured as he sipped his wine and stared into the fire, “He takes too many risks.”

Elrond admiringly watched the sharp profile of his friend against the flames before dropping his gaze to the letter he held,

 

“My Lords,

I hope this letter finds you well. Though we have parted on not amiable terms, I have felt that there was ever underlying respect and understanding between us. I have always admired your courage, dedication and sterling nobility. That is a reason why I risk sending this letter even when I fear the consequences should this be intercepted.

There has been an increasing gossip that Sauron might prevail. If so, then all of the house of Finwë is condemned to the Void. I have trust enough in my mother, my father, Thranduil, you and many others. I am sure that you will defeat Sauron. Ingwë and I are most worried by the judgement of the Valar. They have proclaimed harsh sentences for anyone who aids the attempt of the Noldor should you fail. Thranduil’s fate too lies in balance. 

I want you to believe that you will succeed, I want you to hope, I want you to trust in yourselves. You cannot fail; not after everything endured. There is much more I might say; but I fear that the letter might be waylaid.

I love my sons, and I grieve for their unrelenting days in the wild knowing that I am the sole reason for that. I know that you will do your best by them. And I take heart in that. I would apologize to them, but then I fear that even forever will not be time enough to encompass my regrets.

I remain,  
Celebrían.”

 

Galadriel read her daughter’s letter over and over again, hungrily taking in the words before whispering, “At least she is safe.”

“Think you so?” Celeborn asked wryly from his prone position on the couch, his head resting against a pile of cushions, “I am under the impression that they are merely waiting to get all of us before starting with the trials.”

“That sounds most disrespectful…A Sindar Prince of Doriath should not speak so,” she smiled weakly.

“Sindar Princes of Doriath are usually blessed with more sense,” he shrugged, wincing slightly as the pain set in, “I am afraid that Oropher was the last sensible person of Doriath.”

“Celeborn,” the door opened and Rúmil strode in. He paused when he saw Galadriel standing by the window, her daughter’s letter in her hands. Their eyes met for an instant before Rúmil said haughtily, “My Lady Galadriel.”

“I would have you bow to my fellow ruler,” Celeborn said quietly, though he knew well that he would pay in full for his words later. But he could not let Rúmil or anyone else treat her with anything less than the respect she deserved.

Rúmil smiled mockingly at him before saying in a subservient tone, “Anything my Lord commands,” Celeborn flinched, but Rúmil merely bowed to him and then bowed to Galadriel.

Straightening, Rúmil said quietly, “A quarter of an hour.”

Celeborn nodded, keeping his eyes averted from Galadriel resolutely.

* * *

“My dear Elladan!” Glorfindel exclaimed in part-terror and part-amusement, “Whatever are you doing up there?”

“What does it look like?” Elladan called back irritably, “Hanging Ada Elrond’s first attempt at sketching on above the porch of the Last Homely Home to the West.”

“He’s likely to hang you when he sees it!” Glorfindel hissed as a couple of elves came to gawk at the unusual spectre of the young half-elf teetering atop the dome above the porch, a well-preserved sketch in his hand. 

Glorfindel shook his head in faint amusement as he reminisced; Elrond had clutched the scroll to his heart when he had been parted from Maglor. It had been a combined effort…Elrond’s inexperienced and untalented hands trying to work in tandem with Maglor’s experienced yet equally untalented hands to capture the fell beauty of Maedhros Fëanorion on parchment. Elrond had spent days and nights trying to complete the sketch after coming to Lindon.

“He lost a game,” Elrohir came up and watched his twin amusedly.

“And his wise brother set this penance?” Glorfindel enquired sarcastically, “It is as well that the two of you never attend councils! At your age…”

“At our age, Ada Elrond was a wise healer and warrior; Ada Erestor was the chief-counsellor, the administrator and married; Naneth was an accomplished lady honoured in all courts, Gildor was already a wanderer of repute, Thranduil had bedded half of elvendom, you had already battled a balrog…have I left out anything?” Elrohir responded with droll sarcasm.

“Elbereth!” Lindir came to stand beside Glorfindel, “What madness are you upto, Elladan? Come down immediately, lest you hurt yourself.”

“Laiqua scampers over the entire castle without earning a glare from his esteemed father,” Elrohir commented.

Elladan had finished unscrolling and straightening the parchment and was laboriously nailing it from the ceiling. Cries arose from the onlookers as they saw the subject of the sketch.

“Elladan!” Erestor’s voice was shocked, “You numbskull!”

“And the son of an orc,” Glorfindel chimed in helpfully, earning a withering glare from Erestor. 

“Erestor,” Elrond came down the porch, “You really should learn to relax, I say. You are working yourself to nerves.”

“Look up and you’ll know nerves,” Glorfindel pointed out solicitously, “Elrond, I have always been suspicious about the lasting effects of that draught you gave Elladan when he was down with an arrow wound not so long ago.”

“What the---,” Elrond started. 

Glorfindel pushed his jaw upwards; Elrond looked up to see the frail parchment fluttering in the breeze as a banner of the past. His eyes widened as he saw the sketch. The burnished, red tresses to which neither Maglor nor he had done justice to; the sharp, aristocratic features that Elros had been besotted with; the tormented eyes that had always softened when they rested on loved ones. The stark charcoal sketch did not highlight the contrast between the dark hair and the pale, noble mien of Maedhros. Elrond sighed.

“Mellon-nîn,” Erestor placed a reassuring hand on his wrist.

Elladan jumped down and sidled nervously to Glorfindel’s side; an old habit. The Balrog Slayer had always been his protector whenever he had been on the receiving side of one of Elrond’s explosions or Erestor’s rarer, but volcanic Fëanorian temper tantrums.

“Ah, I know!” Elrond laughed much to the amazement of all who surrounded him, “Elladan! Remind me to get the cook to prepare all your delicacies tonight for dinner, my dear son!”

“It isn’t the draught then,” Elrohir said to Glorfindel, “It is inheritance.”

“Elrond, whatever do you mean?” Erestor asked worriedly as he regarded the parchment fluttering bravely in the wind.

“A banner; an insignia, a coat of arms,” Elrond shrugged, “We haven’t put up anything. I want you to have the craftsmen make a coat of arms of our house as soon as you can. Those elves at the smithies listen more to you.”

“You want to hang the coat of arms of our house? ,” Erestor asked for confirmation, “With due respect to our coat of arms, I think we might do better to hang a warg’s head up here.”

 

“Ada,” Laiqua strode into his father’s chambers, “The patrol reports an---”

He stopped talking as he saw the scene before him. Thranduil was curled about himself in distinctly feline fashion on a worn-out armchair before the fire. His emerald gaze was unfocussed and wide-open in reverie. He was still clad in his formal robes of the day before, having not even bothered to remove his circlet which lay awry and tilted upon his dishevelled hair.

Laiqua sighed and walked over to his father. Thranduil stirred uneasily and curled up more comfortably, wrapping his arms about his coiled-up legs. 

“You are a cat, Ada,” Laiqua said amusedly as he bent over to stoke the fire, “A very foolish cat who sleeps in a chair when he has the best bed in Middle-Earth.”

He drew himself straight and sighed. He wished to let his father rest; but it was impossible. Men from Dale wanted an immediate audience with the King. And there was the matter of the patrol report that he felt his father should know of instantly. Sadly, he tapped his father’s shoulder. Thranduil murmured unhappily before cocking an eye open in his cat-like manner.

“Ada,” Laiqua hunched over to meet his father’s bleary gaze, “Sign your abdication papers in my favour and you can go back to your dreams.”

“Must you exhibit your depraved wit so early in the day?” Thranduil muttered as he uncoiled his legs and rubbed back the circulation into his wrists.

“Men from Dale wanting an audience with The King of Greenwood,” Legolas informed him, “You had better see them if you want your uninterrupted supply of the Dorwinion.”

“Humph…” Thranduil rose to his feet and walked over to the wardrobe, “Let me impress them with my charm.”

“And Estel approaches our borders. He is coming from the Dead Marshes,” Laiqua paused, “The patrol says he has some captive with him; a strange creature.”

“Why is that whelp of Elrond trophy-hunting in the marshes?” Thranduil halted, “Must be Mithrandir’s doing. The lad is too thick-headed and always end up taking the suicidal missions that the wizard finds for him.”

“Estel is a valiant man,” Laiqua said amusedly.

“So was Lord Fingon, High-King of the Noldor. But he loved suicidal missions. I would rather be wise than valiant,” Thranduil responded.

“A pity then that you are neither. Mithrandir says he has great hopes for making Estel a King in Gondor,” Laiqua remarked, “That is one of the main reasons why Estel obliges his whims.”

“I wouldn’t oblige Mithrandir even if he had the power to grant me the lordship of Aman itself,” Thranduil retorted, “Estel is thick-headed, but defend him if you wish.”

“Ada,” Laiqua laughed, “Elladan taught him statesmanship and Elrohir taught him fighting and healing. It is a wonder that he has survived as long as he has in the wilds.”

“I am ready,” Thranduil stated, “Let us go see those Lakemen and then Estel’s new trophy. I have strict injunctions from Imladris to send him thither should he come wandering in my lands this season. A troop of Celeborn’s archers are crossing the river tomorrow. He can join them.”

 

“Gildor,” Círdan sighed as he watched the ships being loaded, “I cannot promise that I will be allowed permit across the seas in the not so distant future. Only Varda’s goodwill and Ulmo’s generosity has stayed Manwë from banning my ships.”

“He would not!” Gildor said alarmed, “There are hundreds of innocent Sylvan and Sindarin folk here. And Noldor families. He cannot let them all perish just because he wishes to punish one family for their sins.”

“I can only tell you what Ulmo tells me,” Círdan said wearily, “For now, though, it is safe enough.”

“We might need another Eärendil,” Círdan remarked as they stood side-by-side silently, each wrapped in his own brooding thoughts, “To win us a path West should things come to an impasse.”

“Elrond would rather stay here and fade away than sail and beg the Valar,” Gildor shook his head firmly.

 

Galadriel watched Arwen and Celeborn walk underneath the woods, animatedly discussing something. She smiled; Arwen had proved to be a wonderful support to both of them. Celeborn cherished her almost as much as he cherished his own daughter. In her own way, Galadriel too loved her favourite nephew’s daughter.

“Join us, Lady Galadriel!” Arwen called up, “It is a most interesting story about our kin in Imladris.”

“Yes,” Celeborn smiled, “You should hear of what Elrond has done now. He has had Erestor make him an intricate, heavy mithril shield of the House of Finwë and he hung it from the top of their home. And banners of the Noldor house everywhere he wished to hang one.”

“I have always considered him too addicted to his father’s house,” Galadriel commented, “I wonder if Erestor will agree to this latest whim.”

“He will,” Celeborn said dryly, “It is better to let Elrond have his way if he is set on something. Else there would be no peace in the land.”

“You are finally understanding the rudiments of diplomacy,” Galadriel said teasingly, “Who would have thought?”

“Wisdom often comes late in life,” Celeborn was quick with his repartee, “I was telling Arwen that.”

“Arwen,” Galadriel said with mock seriousness, “Never make an attempt to be Wise. There are much better things one could be doing.”

“I am certain there are,” Arwen laughed, her eyes sparking as brightly as the jewel that shone on her breast, “For now, I will leave you both to your debate and see to my chores.”

She ran away lightly across the grass and Celeborn sighed as he watched her disappear. Their conversations were pleasant when Arwen was there to act as a safety cushion. Galadriel seemed bolder to join him then and Rúmil did not mind overmuch when Arwen was present. 

“I should try sending her to Thranduil,” he said finally as they continued their walk in uncomfortable silence, “A beautiful soul.”

“Lúthien reincarnated! Though Celebrimbor was handsome too,” Galadriel said reminiscently, “His father was sure that Celegorm was the sire. So alike were they.”

“I am sure that Celegorm didn’t sire Celebrimbor,” Celeborn laughed, “Eru! With Celegorm’s foul temper, it is a wonder that Maedhros did not despatch him to Angband! However did Aredhel fall in love with him?”

“He turned so foul only after she was lost to him,” Galadriel said quietly, “Elrond reminds me of Aredhel so. The same features, though slightly distinct by the lineage of men.”

“He sent me a long letter advising me to be discreet,” Celeborn bit his lips in shock as soon as he realized what he had spoken.

Galadriel took his hand in hers and said gently, “I don’t know why you do that. But I trust your reasons and wisdom. Still I must tell you that if you are sacrificing yourself from some misplaced sense of guilt regarding the past, then it is not worth it.”

“What I do this for, it is worth it,” he said quietly, meeting her sad gaze with resolute resignation.

“If we had sailed directly after Doriath, do you think we might have had a better chance?” she asked bitterly.

“Perhaps, Perhaps not,” he said through clenched teeth, squeezing her hand tightly, “But then you might not have been the woman I know, respect and trust if we had not been through so much together.”

“I…” she shook her head wearily, “I have never been good with words when it comes to you. But centuries ago, I told you while I had ridden to Greenwood to see you that I would die if you asked me to*. I hold to that.”

“I would never ask you to,” he said brokenly, “I would ask you to live again.”

((*See Chapter 13 : ‘The Reforging’ in The Song Of Sunset))

 

“My dearest brother,” Elrohir chuckled as he joined his twin by the statue of their mother, “What do you hope to accomplish by prowling under Glorfindel’s study?”

“An insight into the life and habits of the legendary Balrog Slayer,” Elladan said shortly, “Now get away and leave me to my task.”

“An insight?” Elrohir chortled, “Indeed, you could always achieve that by asking Melpomaen. He is like a faithful dog shadowing Glorfindel.”

“Sometimes you use the most callous terms,” Elladan chided him, “Now hush! I was merely waiting to see if Glorfindel would have the council meeting here. Ada Erestor’s study is deserted. And Ada Elrond never allows those councillors to meet in his study.”

“If you did extend your charming carefulness to our hunts, I would not have to defend your back against an orc every time we get into a skirmish,” Elrohir pointed out sarcastically.

“Speaking of that,” Elladan paused, “I was thinking we should clear the passes for the winter. Arwen returns soon. And I have never had much faith in Grandfather’s warriors. All brag and no steel.”

“You did not complain when you were bedding them,” Elrohir remarked.

“I was merely curious to see what Grandfather saw in them,” Elladan shot back, “They are skilled. But I rather prefer finding my bedmates from Greenwood. A pity Thranduil has sent almost all his womenfolk across the sea.”

“You can always try seducing him,” Elrohir suggested, “Though half of elvendom will be after your hide should you succeed.”

“I don’t fancy him,” Elladan rolled his eyes, “You are however free to try and fail. Poor Gildor has been toiling there for centuries.”

“I prefer women,” Elrohir shrugged, “And don’t you dare tell me that it is fraternal love that makes you pamper Laiqua so. It is well-known that all prospective suitors of the father first try to catch a place in the son’s heart.”

“You never spared women a glance until you met her. I think it is Ada Elrond’s attraction to the Fëanorian bloodline that you have inherited,” Elladan replied, “Well, make a move before someone trumps you. She is the woman thesedays. Much sought after.”

 

Erestor smirked slightly as he saw the twins peep into study after study on the lower floors. 

“They haven’t found us yet,” Elrond commented as he gathered up the scrolls watching the nobles stride out of the room, “As ever I appreciate your wiles. Though this is the first meeting I have attended in the attic.”

Erestor smiled, inclining his head to his friend and waited for the last footsteps to die away. Then he walked over to close the door and turn the key in the lock. Turning to face Elrond, he leant against the door, a satisfied, lazy smile playing on his features.

“I suppose I am right in assuming that we will not be leaving anytime too soon,” Elrond’s breath caught as he dropped his scrolls to the floor.

Erestor raised an eyebrow and began slowly untying the elaborate laces of his robes. Elrond slumped back against the desk, breathing harshly.

“We should do meetings here,” Erestor remarked as he strode over to claim Elrond’s lips evoking an equally passionate response. 

He almost lost his balance as Elrond leant onto him, moulding his broader body into Erestor’s thinner frame, threading his fingers into the dark hair and pulling it in his wild abandon. His eyes were lit with the fury of lust, passion and long suppressed desire as he gripped his companion’s waist.

“Elrond,” Erestor panted as he pulled away shaking to take a deep breath, “We have time.”

“We never have enough time,” Elrond cursed as he tore off his robes hastily. Erestor shuddered as he bent to kiss the crook of Elrond’s neck even as he felt his own robes being ripped off.

 

“Now we know where they were,” Elladan commented as Elrond’s voice echoed from the attic, almost indistinguishable in its tone.

 

Thranduil peered uneasily at Estel. The human reminded him too much of Isildur. No, Thranduil said to himself, the man does not even know what had happened.

Estel felt his breath taken away as he was finally granted audience. Thranduil was clad as always in magnificent gold-inlaid green robes that made him look akin to how Estel imagined the Valar. His emerald gaze rested on Estel for a long moment seeking, penetrating and measuring. Estel gulped under the weight of that ruthless stare and averted his eyes. To Thranduil’s right, stood his son. Estel once more wondered how a father and son could vary so much. Laiqua’s green eyes were warm and compassionate. Though he had inherited his sire’s beauty, there was an approachability about him that Thranduil lacked. Clad in a pale blue robe that complemented his ethereal beauty, he was as soft snow to his father’s hard ice. 

“Who is your prisoner?” Thranduil’s voice was as sensual as ever, though his eyes remained cold.

“Gollum, a creature that had once been captured by the enemy,” Estel replied, “I would ask him to be secured here until Mithrandir has more instructions regarding his captivity.”

“It is not in my power to hold imprisoned anyone who has broken no rules of mine,” Thranduil said warily, as the guards brought in a snivelling, broken, stunted creature riddled with scabs and lash-marks, he pursed his lips as huge blue orbs stared up at him with malice. Beside him Laiqua flinched. The king spoke again, “And I certainly want no part of a creature who must be warped by Sauron’s devices. Put him to death, good riddance.”

“Mithrandir wished to interrogate him,” Estel said firmly, “I cannot let him be killed after all the toils I took to capture him from the shadow of the Black Gate. Horrors unimaginable by man and elf linger there.”

“I have been to the Gate and beyond,” Thranduil spoke evenly. For the first time, Estel remembered the tales of the Last Alliance, of a prince who had become King before his father’s pyre. He swallowed, as Thranduil’s gaze became colder.

“Ada,” Laiqua interposed, “If Mithrandir wishes us to hold him, then we should.”

“Leafling,” Thranduil said sharply, “We cannot hold prisoners of Sauron here. His power and reach are too strong. I cannot afford a full-scale war because of one prisoner.”

Estel looked imploringly at Laiqua, who spoke again, “Ada, Mithrandir has always had his reasons.”

“There are many things you cannot understand,” Thranduil rose to his feet, including both Estel and Gollum in a last cold glare, “If the crown prince of Greenwood intends to hold this creature prisoner, then the crown prince of Greenwood must hold himself responsible for the creature. I shall have no part in it,” he nodded to his son and strode out of the room.

Estel looked up at Laiqua, who was torn between loyalty to his friend, respect for Mithrandir’s wishes and the deep fealty to his father. Finally he fixed his green eyes upon the shrunken creature and said softly, “Estel, I hope this is worth my father’s ire.”

 

“Saruman!” Mithrandir smiled and strode into his friend and superior’s study, “Good news…We have managed to capture the creature called Gollum from the Dead Marshes.”

“That is good news indeed,” Saruman sighed, “But I have bad news. Théoden is succumbing to weakness. Rohan is vulnerable. Denethor refuses our counsel. Gondor wanes. Círdan shall not to have anything to do with open war. The dwarves too are ominously silent. We must find the Ring before it is too late.”

“We will, my dear friend,” Mithrandir promised grimly, “We will.”

* * *

Thranduil ploughed wearily through the large desk of paperwork that never seemed to end. 

“Three more of our counsellors are leaving,” he heard Thalion say across the desk.

“Hmmm…,” Thranduil said with a nonchalance he did not feel in the least, “There are no need for counsellors. We have no cities to build. Or kingdoms to conquer.”

“You aren’t happy with the creature staying here,” Thalion said quietly leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers to regard the King.

“No,” Thranduil admitted with a deep sigh, “I hate keeping prisoners in those dungeon-like caves. And I hate this particular creature. Something very unwholesome about it. Add to all this, the fact that Laiqua’s patrol is spending more time in the north to guard the creature. They are not very experienced and I have my fears that they cannot cope if they are attacked.”

“You are thinking like Erestor,” Thalion commented, “He always imagines the worst.”

“Sometimes you don’t need foresight to know what is going to happen,” Thranduil said bitterly.

 

Erestor leant back in his chair as he reread the latest missive from Isengard, Saruman had described his efforts to trace the ring. Erestor frowned as he walked over to the maps and examined the surround of River Anduin. No, he decided firmly, it was impossible that the Ring still remained in the river. Sauron had the force and the manpower to search the river to its last drop.

The Ring had been found…And Saruman was wise enough to know it, Erestor concluded firmly. The only question was Mithrandir’s role. 

“By treason of kin unto kin, and the fear of treason, shall they be undone.”

“Elrond,” Erestor whispered to himself, “You are proved right once again. We are cursed indeed. Betrayal once again from a quarter least expected.”

“Ada,” Elladan entered, “Mithrandir and Estel are coming by the High Pass. They have agreed to convey Arwen hither.”

“All the same, I would wish that Elrohir and you meet them half-way in Lothlórien,” Erestor said quietly, he had no trust in Isildur’s bloodheir and he was not much inclined to trust wizards right now.

“Any particular reason why you would ask us to trudge through the Hithaeglir when we have been straying in wild lands all the year and are just returned home to you?” Elladan asked curiously.

“Arwen,” Erestor said quietly, “I am too worried whenever someone I care for crosses the mountains. You have your revenge in the orc-hunts. Elrohir slakes his bitterness in combat. Elrond and I are left with bitter memories and regrets. We cannot drown ourselves in revenge the way you do.”

Elladan pursed his lips saying coldly, “We have had this argument with Ada Elrond and Glorfindel a countless number of times. Don’t tell me that you too are going to nag us for this.”

“I shall not nag you,” Erestor said calmly as he returned to his maps, though his fingers shook as he measured the relative distances, “You are old enough and wise enough to make your decisions without my nagging, as you aptly put it. But,” he paused in his work, “if anything should happen to Elrohir or you, then let it be understood that the two of you shall sail immediately. I will brook no argument then, Elladan.” 

Elladan opened his mouth to hotly speak his opposition, but then he saw the cool, determined gaze of his father daring him over the maps. He shrugged noncommittally and walked out. There was nothing one could say to win an argument with Erestor when he was in that temper. And this was one cause that neither Glorfindel nor Elrond would support Elladan in. He would do better to stay calm unless he wanted Erestor to make good on his threat. He decided to find Elrohir and chart their course of action. Elrohir was the diplomat after all.

 

Saruman frowned as he saw the latest missive from Imladris. It was written in the precise, elegant hand of the chief-counsellor of the Noldor. He did not need to read it to know the true meaning. Erestor had never deigned to correspond with him before this. Elrond or Glorfindel were the usual correspondents from Imladris. Now that finally Erestor was condescending to write, Saruman smiled grimly; Erestor was trying to buy time. He had seen through Saruman’s deception. 

“It is too late, my clever friend,” he murmured as he lazily examined the beautiful script of the sender, “Too late. If you had put aside your pride and taken the pains of knowing me all those centuries ago, you might have had a chance of saving your house.”

For now, he could play on Erestor’s apprehensions. The chief-counsellor would probably need to investigate Mithrandir now. And anyway, Erestor could not move an inch without Saruman knowing. His spies had infiltrated the elven councils too deeply. 

 

“My Lord,” Glorfindel looked up as Melpomaen entered quietly, “I wished to talk with you.”

“Please,” Glorfindel politely motioned the younger elf to a seat across him, “I am at your disposal.”

“I wished to tell you that I have buried my feelings regarding you,” Melpomaen said bravely, his eyes meeting Glorfindel’s blue gaze, “War draws near and it is not right to waste our time on shying away from each other. Lord Erestor and Lord Elrond need us to work coordinated. I am sorry for having put you through so much of discomfort and tense situations. It shall not happen again.”

Glorfindel’s eyes widened and he leant forward saying sincerely, “I had never meant to hurt you, young lord. It was merely that I did not feel myself able to meet your eyes knowing that I could not be whom you wished.”

Melpomaen nodded shakily and got to his feet. He seemed so eager to be gone that he did not even bow to his superior as he left. Glorfindel, on his part, rubbed his eyes wearily with his thumbs wondering if he should sigh in relief at the ending of this ordeal or grieve for breaking a young heart.

He walked to Erestor’s study and entered. The room was in chaos, littered with maps and scrolls. He spotted his friend hunched over a map spread on the desk. For a moment, he admired the elegant curve of his friend’s body underneath the loose, silken robes. The long hair was braided into a tight warrior’s plait that threw Erestor’s sharp features into stark profile against the sunlight. 

Glorfindel shook his head wryly as he walked towards his friend, who was still engrossed in his map. Mischievously he ran a hand down Erestor’s spine earning a startled gasp.

“Elbereth!” Erestor murmured weakly as he whipped around. His face had drained of all colour and he was shivering.

“What is it?” Glorfindel asked worriedly.

“Nothing,” Erestor took a deep breath to calm himself, “That is how Gil used to surprise me when we were in Mordor.”

Glorfindel hated himself at the moment, he had never startled Erestor in that manner before. What had made him do that now? Finally he settled for sarcasm, the one vice that had preserved their friendship through all their failings, “I take it that Elrond has never attempted it before?”

“No,” Erestor smiled faintly, falling back into their easy banter, “And I would be infinitely grateful if you would refrain from mentioning this method to him. He would exploit it to the fullest.”

“And what shall be the price of this secret?” Glorfindel riposted. 

“You are in an unusually good humour. What has made you so well-mannered this morning?” Erestor peered at him suspiciously before returning to his map, “There is ale in my cabinet and a bottle of the Dorwinion. Goblets on the mantel. Pour the drinks and then commence your tale, my dear friend.”

“Melpomaen,” Glorfindel admitted, knowing well Erestor’s uncanny deduction methods, “He wishes for us to forget the past, work together in the present for the sake of a happier future.”

Erestor smiled saying truthfully, “I am relieved. It was a mess that I saw no way out of for the both of you. This is the best news that I have had all this year,” he reached out to embrace his mentor and friend, “I must tell Elrond immediately,” he rested his head against Glorfindel’s broader shoulder and closed his eyes contentedly.

“’Restor,” Glorfindel wrapped his arms about his friend’s lither frame, taking in the deep scent of fresh rain and earth that defined Erestor, he smiled as he felt the warmth of his friend’s body seep in through his robes. It was as he had once held Erestor while he had been younger, frightened by nightmares.

“Time passes too quickly for us,” Erestor said muffling his face in Glorfindel’s tunic, “It feels like yesterday when you lulled Menelwen and me to sleep.”

“Do you think she will be happy in Aman?” Glorfindel asked pensively, “’Bría’s letter left me worried. If what we hear of the happenings in Valinor are true, then she might be…”

“Don’t,” Erestor placed his long fingers on Glorfindel’s lips, his eyes met Glorfindel’s wearily, “I need to believe that at least ‘Bría and Menelwen are safe, Glor. That is the only hope that keeps me going.”

“The years have been kinder to me than to you,” Glorfindel sighed, “But never lose hope, ‘Restor. Thranduil, Celeborn and you are the only ones with hope left. The rest of us have long lost hope.”

 

“So you are saying that Thranduil did not wish to imprison the creature?” Mithrandir asked worriedly, “Do you think Laiqua can manage?”

“Yes,” Estel said confidently, “He leads a well-experienced patrol,” he said reassuringly, “And he is an excellent leader on the field.”

“I know,” Mithrandir sighed, “It is just that not even the best of reassurances can assuage my worries thesedays.”

“Lord Mithrandir!” a melodious woman’s voice hailed them. 

Mithrandir laughed saying cheerfully, “Lady Undómiel, you will have to put up with me on this journey, I fear.”

“Indeed,” Arwen smiled as she entered the glade accompanied by one of her handmaidens, holding large sprays of daffodils in a loose bouquet, “And young Estel has grown so!” she remarked wonderingly as she took in the wiry figure of Mithrandir’s human companion.

Estel grinned, it had been long since he had seen her. Her elven senses seemed to know him though. He had been still a toddler when she had left Imladris for Lothlórien. But she seemed the same as ever, her immortal beauty pure and serene as it had been when he had seen her last. He suppressed a mental sigh, to be brought up amongst elves was hard. He was aging while they remained as youthful and somehow untarnished by time and hardships.

“My Lady,” he greeted her politely, even while mentally cursing the Valar for making so perfect a race.

She turned to ask Mithrandir, “Lady Galadriel has been waiting for your arrival. She has asked us to take you to her as soon as you are revived from your long journey. Elladan and Elrohir have come and are with her right now.”

“Estel and I shall join them immediately,” Mithrandir said briskly, “There is news that cannot wait. Lead the way, My Lady.”

“Certainly,” she smiled and led them slowly through the woods, her silken gown trailing behind her. Mithrandir smiled wryly, he could distinguish Valinorean craft when he saw one. Her gown was definitely from across the sea. Celeborn and Galadriel were certainly indulging her with only the best.

 

Gildor wondered why Erestor had asked him to spy on Isengard, the fortress of Saruman. He sighed, this was proving to be a wild goose chase. The old wizard did little else than walking in the woods and reading lorebooks. Gildor was looking forward to taking Erestor down his high pedestal as soon as he reached Imladris. Yes, he decided firmly, Elrond, Glorfindel, the twins and I could have a wonderful time pointing out Erestor’s foolish mistake for years to come. 

A pity that none of his warriors were with him. He had sent them to scour Rohan and the surrounding lands. Orcs were pillaging the small hamlets that the King of Rohan, Théoden, seemed to have little inclination to defend. Gildor felt bile rising in his throat as he remembered the charred corpses of women and children in one of the fallen villages. If this had been the fate of the massacred, then the scion of Finarfin shuddered to think of the fate of the captives.

“Lord Gildor!” a melodious voice called out to him, Gildor saw Saruman atop the balcony of the tower of Isengard.

“Lord Saruman,” Gildor was tired of his mission to spy on an ally anyway. He lowered his hood and galloped towards the tower. At least he could get a decent meal and a night’s sleep in the castle than out in the plains. Erestor could go fry himself in Mordor the next time he tried to send Gildor on a fool’s errand.

 

“So Ada’s becoming increasingly paranoid about Saruman,” Elladan remarked to his grandmother.

“Erestor has always had his reasons,” she said thoughtfully, “But Lord Saruman is wise and has lived in Valinor for Ages. The Valar sent him to aid Mithrandir’s cause.”

“To tell you frankly,” Elrohir said quietly, “The recent increase in orc attacks in almost all the conflict points, the deterioration of Gondor and Rohan, the fading of Lindon from a large capital city to a rustic stopover between Imladris and Mithlond, and so many other reasons…Ada Erestor is worried.”

“So was Thranduil,” Estel remarked as he joined them, “He is almost paranoid about the defences as if he expects Sauron to knock on his bedchamber at midnight.”

“Thranduil and Erestor have always had an uncanny survival instinct,” Galadriel said quietly, “That is the only reason why they are still alive after all their reckless gambits of the past. However, Elrond and I have sensed nothing disastrous in the near future. Saruman too is confident that Sauron shall bide patiently for a few more decades.”

“Galadriel!” Mithrandir bowed as he strode in at his usual hurried pace, “Where is the Lord of Lothlórien?”

“Fornicating,” Elladan guessed dully, “He has rarely been doing anything else all his life.”

“Elladan,” Galadriel chastised him, “Lord Celeborn was on patrol and will join us as soon as he can.”

Elrohir raised his eyebrows, but except for sharing a sardonic glance with Estel and his twin, he did not express his disbelief. Mithrandir huffed in impatience and frowned at Galadriel. Arwen looked so imploringly at him that he sighed and settled for a wait more civilly. Galadriel mentally thanked her fate for Arwen. 

“Greetings, Lord Mithrandir,” Celeborn strode into the clearing, clad in a pure white high-collared tunic and black leggings.

His hair was tightly braided back into a warrior’s plait. He looked every inch a prince and a warrior. Except for the rather obvious teethmarks on his ears. As Mithrandir moved his gaze curiously over the bruise, Celeborn coughed and hastily assumed his position beside his co-ruler. Elladan and Elrohir were torn between the formality that they were required to maintain and the disgust they felt for their erring grandfather.

Galadriel broke the impasse by saying firmly, “Elladan, Elrohir, greet your grandfather.”

“Really, My Lady,” Elladan lost his temper, “I see no reason why we should do that given the fact that he is fresh from Eru-knows-what activities with that Sylvan bedwarmer of his!” 

Estel watched curiously as Mithrandir glared at Elladan, warning him to drop the subject. But both Elladan and Elrohir had always despised Celeborn for his high moral ground in the matter of their parents. There was little chance that they would let something like this pass without remark.

“Elladan,” Galadriel cut in even as Celeborn stood stunned by the callous speech, “That was very cruel and quite unnecessary. If Lord Elrond or Lord Erestor had been here, they would not have you speak so.”

“I know,” Elrohir stepped in to defend his twin, “They are too noble to say anything of the sort. Grandmother, you should not defend him, he doesn’t deserve it. He is of the same mould as our Naneth; selfish and callous!”

Mithrandir said piqued, “I did not come all the way from Isengard to discuss this! Galadriel, Estel and I must leave immediately.”

“Arwen, please prepare to leave,” Galadriel said evenly, “And Lord Aragorn,” Estel suppressed a groan, she always insisted on calling him that, “Please take the time to refresh yourself. Mithrandir, if you would wait for me in my talan…”

As soon as Arwen, Mithrandir and Estel had left, Galadriel turned to face Elladan and Elrohir saying gravely, “I will not let Lord Celeborn’s name be sullied as long as I live and breathe. You would do well to remember that.”

Elladan pursed his lips and strode out, Elrohir following him close behind. Celeborn sighed and whispered, “I did not deserve to be defended.”

“I did not deserve you at all,” she offered with a strained smile.

“How can you be so forgiving?” he asked tiredly, “After all I do with him daily.”

“I know well that you suffer more in that relationship than I do,” she sighed, “Celeborn, please stop this if it is for some misguided cause or a revenge for absolving my vows.”

“No,” Celeborn said in a tight voice, “It is not revenge. It is not a misguided cause. What I suffer, it is ultimately worth it.” 

They remained in the glade for a moment longer, each trying to offer silent comfort to the other, until Celeborn laughed bitterly saying, “I never believed that a day would come when I might forget the meaning of hope.”

 

Elrond walked in the gardens, his thoughts revolving around Gildor. The leader of the Wandering Company seemed to have been delayed; Glorfindel had ridden along with a goodly number of escorts in search of him. Elrond gazed up at the bright stars. He was carried back into the past, to the days when Maglor had patiently stood beside him teaching him the names of each star.

“Why did the good times pass as fleeting wisps while the grimmer days linger?” he asked softly.

“You are not the only one to think so, My Lord,” Lindir’s voice was subdued, “I can no longer bear to sing songs in praise of Elbereth. It grieves me that whatever we endure, it is not enough penance.”

“I have never believed in singing praises to the Valar,” Elrond shrugged, “If they are as pure as they are supposed to be, they will not care for adulation.”

“What do you believe in, My Lord?” Lindir asked curiously, “Your endurance through the centuries must have had a reason…you must have believed in something.”

“I have only believed in one thing,” Elrond murmured as the moon broke through the clouds, casting a brilliant light on the smooth stone work of the mansion. Elrond smiled as he pointed his hand towards the low terrace. 

A familiar deep-black clad figure stood against the stone railings, face upturned to the skies, the dark hair flying softly in the cold night breeze. Lindir was sure that the figure was hewn out from marble and stone by a master-craftsman, for so sharply defined were those aristocratic features. Behind Erestor was thrown into stark relief the painstakingly crafted emblem of the House of Finwë. For a moment, it seemed to Lindir that the star of Fëanor seemed to shine down on Erestor. He did not need to look at Elrond’s face to feel the happiness radiate from the elf-lord. 

“I understand,” Lindir said quietly as Erestor’s eyes unerringly spotted out Elrond in the dark gardens and the chief-counsellor’s cold features softened into a warm smile, “But it is a difficult path to tread. Have you never been frightened?”

“Have you ever felt an emotion so fathomless that you are willing to battle the Valar themselves should you need to?” Elrond spoke earnestly, his austere features glowing fanatically, “If ever have you have felt that, then you would know what I believe in.”

* * *

He had never felt this fear in his entire life. And he had lived quite a long time. He no longer had the strength to scream, he no longer had the will to spit at his captors. Why was death not taking him? 

“But Lord Mandos will never call you to him, cursed scion of a fading house,” the accursedly melodious voice reminded him even as he lolled his head in gut-wrenching pain. 

“Tell me what I wish to know, and you shall never be harmed again,” the voice asked him gently. 

He did not have the strength to even open his eyes. He settled for bleak silence…until the sharp whip began mutilating his bleeding form again.

“We have all the time in the entire world,” the voice said lazily.

 

“I do not wish to sail west even if Erestor asked me to,” Arwen said quietly.

“I would be relieved beyond measure if you did,” Celeborn replied truthfully, “While both Galadriel and I love you, Undómiel, we would never want to keep you here in the midst of all this turmoil. It is terrible enough to know that our grandsons will not sail anytime soon. They are determined to fight. But still, you will be in Imladris or beyond. Any place west of the Hithaeglir is safe for now.”

“I would wish to see Greenwood,” Arwen said wistfully, “I have always wanted to see the great realm of Lord Thranduil Oropherion.”

“If the darkness is defeated,” Celeborn promised solemnly, “I would take you to Greenwood, to Erebor where Narvi’s kin still hew wonders from stone and rock, to Lindon the fair and so many other places.”

“I would wish to see Gondor,” Arwen sighed, “And all those realms of men.”

“No,” Celeborn said disturbed, “I have never felt at ease in the company of men or in their cities. The dwarves understand us better than the men do, Arwen,” he sighed, “Sometimes I wonder what made Lúthien and Idril choose as they did. Loving a mortal is folly.”

“Perhaps we should ask Lord Elrond,” Arwen smiled, “He would know the motivations behind his twin’s choice.”

“Don’t ask him that!” Celeborn laughed, “Galadriel brainwashed poor Elros into mortality. I think Gil-Galad helped there. If Maglor had known, he would have slain both of them!”

“She cannot shirk away from the fates that are unveiled to her foresight,” Arwen said in a placating voice, “To her, the greatest sorrow must be that she is immortal.”

“Do you mean that you find mortality less burdensome than our existence?” Celeborn asked incredulously, “I find it difficult to grasp. Immortality is a gift that has always been cherished by the elves.”

“I was speaking of our house,” Arwen said thoughtfully, “If not for the immortality, Galadriel would not have suffered so much. Her kin would not have been condemned to the void. Immortality is what makes those of the house of Finwë defy the Valar over and over again. Mortals would have never defied them as many times as those immortal in their short lives and the curse would have been lifted,” she took a deep breath, “Having a mortal existence is having the chance to make less mistakes.”

 

“I hope that Gildor hasn’t sailed,” Glorfindel remarked caustically as he entered Erestor’s study, “The trail is lost from the River Isen. I think he might have continued across the river into the lands of Rohan.”

He paused as he saw the scene within, Elrond was seated at Erestor’s desk, rifling lazily through the large pile of correspondence. Erestor was curled up on the windowsill, eyes closed in exhaustion, his chest slowly falling and rising in slumber. 

“That is unlikely,” Elrond observed, “He would not travel on errantry without leaving his warriors instructions. I have sent a missive to Círdan. Perhaps Gildor rode there for an impromptu discussion with the mariner.”

“More likely, he is sulking in the forests of Fangorn complaining to his mare about Erestor, who sent him on this errand in the first place,” Glorfindel replied sarcastically, even as he tenderly smoothed away a few unruly hairs from Erestor’s face “You know how disinclined he was to leave on this mission. He is likely to appreciate a few days without Erestor in the wilds of the forest. I know I would, if I had been in his place. Glad to see that you finally managed to coax him to sleep. I was worried.”

“It was a hard task. He was half-mad with fear and anxiety for Gildor’s sake. We should send a missive to Celeborn,” Elrond examined the long quill that he held.

“Let us hope that he can spare a moment of his fruitfully occupied time to see to the matters of politics,” Glorfindel said wryly.

“Let him have a breather,” Elrond chuckled, “Eru knows, he must have been through enough in that deadlock of a marriage he had with Galadriel. He deserves some light days.”

“You know what, Elrond,” Glorfindel said wryly, “I suspect your dislike of Galadriel is so deep that you will even side with Sauron if it meant that she would be thwarted.”

“True,” Elrond remarked, “But I will stand by her for the sake of our common cause, Glor. Both she and I know that there is no love lost between us. Still alliances are not allegiances* as Erestor once reminded the late, lamented Isildur!” 

((*Refer to The Song Of Sunset Chapter 33 : The Journey To Mordor 1’))

 

“I am tired of trudging back and forth through these Valar-curst mountains!,” Mithrandir scowled.

“Lord Mithrandir,” Arwen smiled, “One would think that you were forcefully drawn away from home and hearth to accompany us on this trip!”

“Oh, But I was!” Mithrandir scowled again, “Lady Galadriel summoned me!”

“You could have stayed away,” Elladan pointed out amusedly, “She has no hold on you.”

“True,” Mithrandir said gruffly, “But all the same, I thought she would have something important to bring to my attention. Let us hope that Lord Erestor has better news,” he grunted in disgust, “I served no purpose other than to stand witness to a foolishly noble wife defending her nobly foolish husband.”

“Come,” Estel joined them, “After all, is forgiveness not supposed to be the greatest gift of true love?”

Mithrandir groaned in pure frustration before spurring his mount forward to where Elrohir rode with the scouts. Elladan laughed and followed him. Estel smiled as his mare fell in step with Arwen’s stallion.

“So, did you mean what you said?” Arwen asked him curiously.

“Yes,” Estel laughed with the confidence that only the mortals could have, “My mother has experienced love at its fullest!”

“I see,” Arwen said thoughtfully, she was sure that no elf could be so confident. Theirs was a race wracked by regrets and memories of a bitter past.

“Have you ever felt it?” Estel asked curiously.

“No,” Arwen smiled honestly, “I fear it. Think of the power it has on people like Galadriel and Celeborn! I truly do not wish to be ensnared in it!”

“That makes sense,” Estel agreed wholeheartedly, “And they say that Lord Elrond still pines for his wife, who sailed away so long ago.”

Arwen said carefully, watching the human’s face for any hint of suspicion, “It is said so. I have been in Lothlórien for the greater part of my life and I have never been close to either my father or my mother”.

She had managed to evade his question without lying in the least. Days spent in Galadriel’s company taught one such skills, she reflected sardonically.

 

Thranduil Oropherion wondered why exactly he had to put up with perverted cowards in his life. 

“Tell me once again, Thalion,” he said with feigned calmness, “Why would I even dream of talking to such unprincipled traders? Their ancestors were probably the ones who tried to sell Elrond and me to a slave market.”

“Prince,” Thalion estimated a mere fraction of a moment before the famed wrath of his king broke through, “They claim to have information that they consider important enough to impart directly to the legendary Elf-King in person.”

Thranduil exhaled deeply before throwing a filthy glance at Thalion murmuring, “Remind me again, why did Ada make a kingdom in the middle of a forest? I would have chosen an island.”

“Shall I tell them that you will grant them an audience?” Thalion smiled apologetically, “It would be better to get it over with, of course.”

“Please,” Thranduil sighed as he leant back in his throne and drank down a goblet of watered-down wine, “It is always my pleasure to meet slave-traders.”

He suppressed a shudder of loathing as the men strode in. Dark, tanned men of the south, he noted absently. Their long, hooded cloaks and calloused hands reminded him of the days of war in Mordor. Firmly suppressing his memories, he gracefully inclined his head when the traders bowed to him.

“What may I do for you, guests to Greenwood?” he asked nonchalantly, as if he did receive traders in flesh everyday in his court.

“A private audience,” the leader spoke up. 

He threw back his hood, his brown eyes were wild and untamed. There was no softness in his gaunt, harsh features burnt tan by the sun and the winds. His tall figure was slightly stooped and his legs were spread apart in a warrior’s defensive stance. He seemed to know well that he was in enemy territory. And yet he had risked it. Thranduil knew immediately that this would not be a usual insult-slinging round of arguments. He glanced across at Thalion’s sternly disapproving face.

“I will grant you a private audience,” Thranduil said quietly, “If what you tell me is not worth the trouble, then be assured that I will hunt down all of you and feed you to my hunting dogs.”

“We know,” the leader said boldly, “So we are sure that our news is worth your time and our risk. I give my word that I shall not endeavour to harm your person or that of any of your subjects, My King.”

“Bring him into my private audience chamber,” Thranduil rose to his feet.

 

Erestor woke to the pain that cramped his body from his uncomfortable position on the window-sill. He suppressed a groan of discomfort. He could hear Elrond’s and Glorfindel’s voices in the corridor, rapidly fading. Smiling at his luck, he swung himself into a more comfortable sitting position and straightened his crumpled robes. He noticed gratefully that Elrond had already started working on his correspondence. As he stretched his limbs and sauntered over to the desk, his sharp eyes noticed a familiar writing on one of the letters. Startled, he grabbed it and began reading through with increasing alarm. As his eyes rested on the signature of the sender, he slumped wearily into his chair, pressing a hand to his forehead. 

“To evil end shall all things turn that they begin well”

“Elbereth!” Erestor begged, “Is there no penance that would suffice? Blood, tears and life, we have sacrificed all! What more can we do to appease you?”

 

Elladan frowned as he saw Elrond and Glorfindel wait in the courtyard with identical worried expressions. 

“What is it?” Elrohir asked, having made the same observation as his twin. He helped Arwen dismount and pressed a chaste kiss to her cheek before taking her arm and walking her to Elrond.

“Did you meet Gildor on your way?” Elrond asked with ill-disguised worry as he embraced Arwen. 

“No, we didn’t. Mithrandir and Estel are at the outposts,” Elrohir said thoughtfully, “But they did not say they met him anywhere on their trail from Greenwood. I thought Gildor was wandering in Lindon.”

“Elrond,” Erestor came to the courtyard, a mask of diplomacy on his pale features, “I need a word with Mithrandir alone.”

“Ever at your service,” Mithrandir gruffly spoke before dismounting and nodding to the others. Then he followed Erestor into the house.

“Was Gildor supposed to have returned by now?” Elladan asked worriedly.

“Yes,” Glorfindel said with feigned nonchalance, “I am sure that he is taking a tumble somewhere in those human villages. Elrond, we are truly getting older. Look at us, standing in the courtyard waiting for nomads!”

Elrond nodded, though his austere features were brooding and dark. He led Arwen into the house. Elladan exchanged a curious glance with his twin.

“There must be trouble,” Elrohir commented, “Glorfindel was worried. And he rarely worries over trifles.”

“But Ada Erestor seemed unworried,” Elladan said sceptically, “One would think that he would be the most concerned since he is the closest to Gildor.”

“Do you think that is any cause for comfort?” Elrohir raised his eyebrows, “Glorfindel once told us a story where Ada Erestor used to count corpses on the battlefield with the same ease as one would count spots on a beetle.*”

(* Refer The Song Of Sunset : Chapter – Thirty-Eight : ‘A Vale Of Blood 4’)

 

Laiqua Thranduillion watched the traders linger in his father’s courtyard. He pursed his lips in anger and disgust as he crossed them into the palace. He could feel their stares on him as he walked away. 

“Why is Ada entertaining slavers?” he demanded as soon as he saw Thalion hovering about his father’s private study.

“Laiqua!” Thalion smiled as he walked forward to embrace Laiqua, “How is your charge doing?”

“A piteous creature,” Laiqua murmured, his expression becoming compassionate, “It has been deprived of sunlight and breeze for so long that it is almost past sanity. I have been asking my warriors to let it out for a few hours everyday so that it can feel the sunlight again.”

“What?” Thalion asked disapprovingly, “Thranduil would not allow that, young lord. The creature is a prisoner and must be treated so. With neither cruelty nor kindness.”

“Those are my father’s ways,” Laiqua shrugged, “What use are our songs to Elbereth if we do not even spare a thought to our fellow-creatures? Virtue is not measured by wisdom or valour. It is measured by kindness and suffering.”

“Kindness is a foil for weakness,” Thalion said with some asperity, “And suffering, young lord, you have barely known the surface of the bottomless ocean that is suffering.”

 

Galadriel walked away from the mirror, her mind whirling with the images she had seen. As always she understood nothing of it. It had never shown her anything clear after the last alliance. She frowned; was the legacy of the mirror fading from her? She felt a sudden dizziness rise in her veins, one of the side-effects of using the mirror. It was draining her.

“It is too much to hope that you will be free from its burden,” Celeborn’s voice was resigned as he steadied her with his arms.

She felt a sudden desire to rest her head against him; to just believe that she would be safe and protected from the world that was set to destroy her. But she gathered up the last vestiges of her pride and courage.

Moving out of his arms, she said quietly, “Thank you. I feel better now. It always passes.”

“You are wearing away,” he said sadly, “I wish there was something more I could do for you.”

She felt a blinding pain shoot through her, convulsing her body. Images flooded through her mind.

“You mean to say that my body will be the price of my wife’s freedom and safety?” 

“She is alone…If you are willing to reconsider your words, I can keep her safe from my brothers’s wrath.”

“Altáriel,” his voice was coloured with worry as he helped her ease to the ground, his fingers soothing her sweating brow, “Altáriel?”

“I am well,” she gasped as she tried to rise, only to find his arms steadying her once more.

“I am well,” she closed her eyes and inhaled a deep breath to calm herself, “Celeborn, I have things to see to. I will be fine, I assure you.”

“What did you see?” he asked worriedly.

“Something I should have seen long ago,” she rose unsteadily and met his confused gaze with her characterstic calm. “I was a fool.”

“I cannot believe that,” he said sincerely as he regarded her, “You are many things, but never a fool.”

 

“Yes?” Mithrandir asked hopefully, “News?”

“Of a sort,” Erestor waved Mithrandir into a chair and then poured out a goblet of the Dorwinion for him.

“The poison of the Valar!” Mithrandir exclaimed, “I am as addicted to this as Saruman is addicted to pipeweed! Do you know, he sends for barrels of the weed thrice a year!”

Erestor smiled humourlessly as he took a deep drink of his wine and leant back in his chair. Mithrandir frowned as the steely, dark eyes regarded him piercingly. Never had he been subjected to such a stare, and the wizard knew that he would not wish to be regarded so ever again. The dark eyes were cold and ruthless; Mithrandir was reminded of Thranduil Oropherion. 

“Bad news?” Mithrandir asked cautiously, more to end the unnerving silence between them than from a desire to know.

“Why do you think that Saruman has spies everywhere?” Erestor asked softly, his eyes glittering in the firelight.

Mithrandir felt as if there was a hidden meaning behind that simple question. But not wanting to risk the wrath of a Fëanorian, he replied truthfully, “I have no idea. I assume it is keep track of things everywhere. And to make sure we are not betrayed and that our secrets remain ours alone.”

“Noble,” Erestor commented, his eyes lightening almost imperceptibly.

“He has always been a noble soul,” Mithrandir stated flatly, “Why else would he sail across when he had a safe choice in Valinor? He wanted to aid us! What profit can he have from this cause?”

“Middle-Earth offers something that Valinor cannot,” Erestor said quietly, his eyes darkening again, though his voice seemed to be more introspective than accusatory, “The chief amongst which is Power.”

“You make no sense to me,” Mithrandir began impatiently, “I really do not need to have this debate now--- There are things more pressing.”

“As?” Erestor dared him quietly, his fingers tracing the rim of his goblet.

“Finding the Ring!” Mithrandir pounded his fist on the table, “If you wish to play mindgames, pray, do so with Galadriel or Thranduil! The three of you are content to remain closeted with strategies, foresight and the memories of the past! Some of us are really trying to destroy Sauron, including Saruman.”

“The Ring has been found, Mithrandir,” Erestor rose to his feet in one fluid movement. He walked to the fire and watched the flames thoughtfully, “It remains only to be identified, wherever it is now.”

“What makes you say that?” Mithrandir asked hoarsely, “I cannot believe that you had this information and you withheld it from me! I have devoted years to your cause, roaming and seeking!”

“I trust that things will become clearer to both of us once you have taken counsel with Saruman,” Erestor said sadly, “I understood that from Saruman’s latest missive. Which is why I wished to speak with you in private immediately. There are traitors deep in our councils, Mithrandir. And I no longer know whom to trust.”

Mithrandir felt a pang of sympathy shoot through his blood as he watched Erestor’s composure crumple rapidly leaving behind a lost expression, he rose to his feet and walked over to his companion. Sighing, he placed a gnarled hand on Erestor’s robe-clad shoulder.

“I will not betray you,” he promised, “Whatever happens. I vow this by Eru,” he said gravely, “May I be doomed if by me you lose.”

“We cannot lose,” Erestor said in a strained voice, “We cannot afford to lose, Mithrandir.”

Mithrandir met Erestor’s haunted eyes before saying quietly, “We shall not fail.”

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

He screamed as the orcs entered again and started kicking his curled-up, quivering body, opening up barely healed wounds. Through the corner of his eyes, he could see a larger shadow in the entrance of the dank cell. As if sensing it, the orcs grumbled amongst themselves before scurrying away hastily. 

He curled deeper into himself, shaking in the foetal position he was in, tears of pain, desperation and pure fear trailing down his torn and bleeding face. After a few long moments of torturous anticipation, he opened his eyes and looked up defeated at the latest tormentor.

Immediately, he wished that he had not. It was beyond doubt the largest orc he had seen, arrayed in battle armour and fitted with an excellent sword and many daggers. A creature that might have subdued him even on a battlefield. In his current condition, he knew that he would not survive this.

The melodious voice reverberated in the corridor, “I see that you are impressed by my fighting Uruk-hai, the best of orcs and elves. I will leave you the privacy to form your own views on my breeding techniques.”

 

Thranduil said quietly as he massaged his temples, “Thalion, they say that they have an informant who might be of use to us. But their condition is that this anonymous person will wait only beyond the Gladden Fields.”

“Why would they be inspired to do us a good turn?” Thalion asked sceptically as he mixed a headache draught for his companion.

“I would be happy to know the answer,” Thranduil said wryly, drinking the bitter draught with an ugly grimace, “For now, I have decided to--”

“ADA!” Laiqua strode in and embraced his father, half-upsetting the contents of the goblet earning a sharp glare from Thalion.

“Leafling,” Thranduil murmured embracing his son tightly as he inhaled the soft fragrance of Laiqua’s hair, “Glad to see you.”

“I must return soon,” Laiqua sighed, “There are too few warriors on the northern borders.”

“I can barely spare them from the southern borders and the vales of the Anduin,” Thranduil smiled sadly, releasing his son from the hug, “You must make the best of it, Laiqua. I consent to this merely because you gave your word of honour to the human. The warriors are to keep you safe. Our neighbours in Erebor and Laketown will see to the northern borders. There is no reason why you should be stationed there on a permanent basis.”

“I know,” Laiqua sighed, “Yet Mithrandir must have had his reasons.”

Thranduil shrugged and spoke to Thalion, “See to him, Thalion. I will be going with the human now.”

“Ada?” Laiqua asked concernedly, “What human? Why are the slavers here?”

“They are here to trade information,” Thranduil said rolling his eyes, “However the leader has convinced me. I need to pursue it since it sounds so promising.”

“You are going because you were persuaded by a cutthroat human slave-trader?” Laiqua asked incredulously, “Ada, that is the most foolish thing you have done!”

Thalion stood back worried. He knew enough of Thranduil to know that the King brooked no opposition to his instincts which had always been proved right. And he knew enough of Laiqua to know that the prince would not give in easily. 

“I beg your pardon,” Thranduil raised an eyebrow, “I did not certainly live this long by being foolish.”

“And that does not mean that this course is anything but folly,” Laiqua said evenly, drawing himself to his full height and looking his father in the eye which was no mean feat since Thranduil’s eyes resembled sharp, cold emeralds, “There is no reason why you should listen to cutthroats to get your information.”

“I am sure that I will consider your wise counsel after you are of age to offer me your views on state matters. Until then, please do keep to the northern reaches of the woods and guard your precious creature. I will procure the information to hold my realm safe by whatever means I can,” Thranduil said quietly before leaving the room.

“You should return and send the prisoner to Lothlórien or to Saruman, in Isengard,” Thalion advised Laiqua seriously, “Things are bad in the southern borders. Our generals and counsellors are sailing. We are in dire need of leaders.”

“I would die for Ada, if he asked me to,” Laiqua said quietly, though his jaw was set in defiance, “But my word is as good as Thranduil Oropherion’s. And I gave my word to Estel that I would keep his prisoner safe and under our vigil. I shall not break it.”

 

“My dearest Elrond,” Erestor sighed as he tried to coax a pensive Elrond into retiring, “I will wake you if there is news. Please, you have been keeping vigil for three nights. You cannot continue this.”

“Why has there been no news yet?” Elrond asked worriedly, his eyes sweeping the deserted trails on the mountains.

“As Glor says, he must have gone east to Rohan,” Erestor said calmly, “Retire now, Elrond. I will wake you when I have news.”

“You have always been a smooth deceiver,” Elrond said tenderly, as he smoothed the high cheek-bone of his companion with the back of his hand, “It is good enough to trick the best. But the bond is stronger. I can sense your misgivings and fears.”

“I did not wish to burden you,” Erestor said simply, offering a weak smile as he met Elrond’s understanding gaze.

“We chose to walk together,” Elrond spoke softly, cupping his friend’s cheek, his eyes glittering with determination, “And so we shall.”

 

Thranduil wondered why he felt the familiar pang of unease rise in him as he rode to the Gladden fields. He was accompanied by the leader of the slavetraders, a man who had merely refused to give his name saying that it would not avail anything. Thranduil did not trust him, but he trusted the information.

“My Lord,” the man spoke urgently, “Orcs loiter in these lands. We must make haste. I do not have your senses at night and cannot lead.”

“I know well these lands. And I am sure that I could manage to stay unnoticed if I wish to,” Thranduil assured him, “Lead on at the pace you consider the best. I will follow.”

“If you would pull on your hood to cover your features and your hair,” the man asked uneasily, “They are quite distinctive. And the price on the head of Thranduil Oropherion is very high in the lands of Mordor.”

“I see,” Thranduil said quietly pulling up his hood, he was not foolish enough to discard well-meant advice when he heard it, “I did not realize that I was known outside my own borders, being the recluse I am.”

“They know you,” the man paused riding, his brown eyes meeting the green gaze of the hooded figure fearfully, “And they know you well. The Nazgûl fear you.”

“Nazgûl?” Thranduil asked bewildered.

“The Nine, the wraiths, they are all the same,” the man whispered looking around, “We must be careful. Dol Guldur and the regions about it are best avoided even in midday light.”

“I know the place well,” Thranduil said grimly, “You are speaking to an elf who has walked in these woods for more years than you have seen.”

“Our people say that they can hear the lonely lament of an elven maiden who died in an orc attack decades ago when Dol Guldur was reclaimed by Him,” the man said quietly, “Her spirit has not found rest in her forefathers’ halls.”

“That is folly,” Thranduil said in a low voice, “Her soul sped to the halls of death as soon as it fled her body.”

“You knew her?” the man asked with no false sympathy in his voice, but mere curiosity. When one lived in such unstable times, Thranduil thought absently, then he or she would no longer feel horror in death.

“As well as one soul can know another,” Thranduil said unemotionally, though his insides were churning.

“By the beard of my father!” the man exclaimed, “She was your wife?”

“She was the Queen of Greenwood at a time when the forest was still fair and green,” Thranduil said quietly, “My bonded-mate and the mother of my only son.”

He closed his eyes involuntarily as the memories assailed him with brute cruelty. How could mere memories torment one after centuries had passed? He had never found the answer.

“I am sorry,” the man said clumsily as if not used to expressions of condolences, “So you did not marry again?”

Thranduil did not wish to launch into a detailed narrative of the intricacies of elven unions to a virtual stranger who might betray him at any moment to Dol-Guldur. So he settled for, “I did not. I have not been able to forget her.”

They did not speak again, gliding through the woods like shadows in the night. Thranduil wondered about the significance of Gladden fields in his life. Isildur had died there. Galadriel had been found there. His wife had died there. Now he was being led there again. He looked up at the veiled stars and the clouded skies, he could no longer sense the pulse of Greenwood in his blood. They had crossed into the lawless territories that belonged to Lothlórien, but were overrun by orcs and wild-men. He no longer had the power of his woods. For the first time in centuries, he was stepping out of his own realm. And it was for an errand that was fraught with tension of betrayal and suspicions.

“You are a valiant soul,” the man remarked as he moved further into the cragged, rocky area towards the east, “Not many of your kind would have followed me so far.”

“There is a fine line between recklessness and valour,” Thranduil remarked as he tried to get his bearings with little success. He was lost without the stars. 

“I was asked to wait here,” the man pointed to a large crevice in the rock plateaus hidden from the line of sight by an overhanging outcrop of rock, “He promised to be here soon.”

“Can I ask you what your benefit in this deal is?” Thranduil asked with a nonchalance he did not quite feel.

“My son,” the man said angrily, “He has my son. And he refuses to kill him straight unless I bring you here to him.”

“Would it be detrimental to tell me whom we are waiting for?” Thranduil asked casually, “If it is the Enemy’s web, I promise you I shall not live to be captured. It means less to me to give up my life than one would think.”

“Why did you come?” The man said bewildered, “You had no reason to trust me. I could be an agent of Mordor for all you know, you have no proof of me being anything else.”

“I came because I have a son I cannot afford to lose. On the other hand, I have nothing left to lose,” Thranduil grimaced, “I know I don’t make much sense to you, but I trust you because I have no reason to trust you. Agents of the enemy usually give a good enough reason to be trusted.”

 

“Haldir,” she said quietly, her eyes meeting his brown ones calmly, “I wish to speak of something that both of us need to know.”

“If it is about my brother and the lord of this land,” Haldir sneered, “Then, pray, don’t waste our time, My Lady. They probably are the greatest attractions to the visitors to this land.”

“You are protective of your brothers,” she continued with icy calm ,”I would advise you to counsel your brother in this. Not only am I a kinslayer’s daughter, but a kinslayer too,” she smiled coldly, “I would have little hesitation to mount my toll by one should it be for protecting Lord Celeborn.”

“We have an understanding then,” Haldir said quietly, “Please, I shall counsel him. Do not concern yourself with this. I shall set things to rights.”

 

“It is a cold night, would you not retire?” Arwen asked Elrohir quietly as she saw him standing near his mother’s statue in the courtyard.

“My bed is a cold and lonely place to be. At least here, I am not lonely,” he waved towards the loitering couples, “They show me that there is still joy to be had in these lands.”

“I would hope so,” Arwen smiled as she linked her arm into his in a friendly manner, “But with each passing year, I find it difficult to believe that hope exists.”

“Let us not speak of such things,” Elrohir changed the topic, “Tell me of your pursuits in Imladris. I find myself with nothing to do these days.”

“Would you teach me those songs they sing to Lady Elbereth?” she asked hopefully, “And the lays of Beleriand. Of Doriath. Of Lindon. Of Mithlond…”

“You have left out the lays of Valinor,” he remarked amusedly, “But I have no objection in doing all that since it means I get the pleasure of your company.”

“The Dwarves have never talked to me so charmingly,” Arwen observed, “I was shocked when Lord Celeborn spoke so to me the first day we conversed.”

“His charm is one of the few reasons why our grandmother still keeps him around,” Elrohir said with a roll of his eyes.

“They are in love with each other as much as they were all those millennia ago,” she remonstrated, “Fate and not their actions have led them here.”

“How can you say that they love each other?” Elrohir asked quietly, “How can you be sure that they are in love?”

“The way they can’t keep their eyes from softening subtly whenever they see each other,” she smiled contentedly, “If that is not love, then what is?”

“I would not know,” he paused, “And yet, I fear I may know.”

“How so?” she turned to look up at him, her eyes wide and curious, her lips slightly parted, the lights from the torches softening her features, the sparkling jewel a tribute to the beauty she embodied.

He bent down to press his lips dryly to her forehead before withdrawing in alarm. Sweat broke on his forehead as he babbled, “I did not mean…I…That is, I never meant to…”

“Please, Elrohir,” she said calmly, though her features had turned waxen in the torchlight, “Come nearer.”

He was as nervous and fidgety as a young colt. She was frightened and stunned in equal measure. This time though, when their lips met, there was more confidence and passion on his side. She tentatively reached to place her hands in his to still the shaking of her fingers. 

 

“You know as well as I that there is a deep, lingering love between them,” Haldir said crisply, “It is folly what you are keen to pursue.”

“You promised to stand by me,” Rúmil argued.

“And I shall,” Haldir sighed, “You are my brother; I have always stood by you despite my personal reservations about your concerns. But I must reiterate that she is not a person who might be content to stay aside and watch now that she knows all. She is not to be trifled with.”

“What is she, but a worn-out opponent who has run out of ruses so that she resorts to blind threats?” Rúmil shrugged, “I don’t fear her.”

“I would, if I had been you,” Haldir cautioned.

 

Mithrandir wondered why Erestor Maglorion had acted so strangely. There had been no bad news than was usual; orcs gathering in the mountains, Gondor waning, Rohan weakening, and the increasing uncertainty over Moria. Perhaps, he mused thoughtfully, the curse was claiming another victim. Paranoiac fear and pessimism, he smiled wryly, certainly signs of inner turmoil and near madness. Maybe he should have warned Elrond to keep an eye on Erestor.

 

Galadriel felt a weary sense of sorrow pervade her as she saw Rúmil enter Celeborn’s talan. The lord of Lothlórien came out to greet him, clad in a pale green robe that should have enhanced his features. But the wan, resigned yet resolute expression on his face betrayed his unhappiness. Their gazes met for a long moment before he quirked his lips in a faint smile and turned away. She sighed; she no longer had the tears to shed for the losses that plagued her life. All those whom she had loved had met their ends at the cruel hands of fate. Now, she was reduced to seeing the one person whom she would have died for, suffer so. The only mistake he had done was to love her. 

Could she bear to watch the slow self-destruction that he had taken upon himself in a heroic attempt to keep her safe? 

 

Elladan entered the library, humming bawdily a song he had learnt from Estel. He grinned as Elrond and Glorfindel frowned at the song and exchanged frustrated, long-suffering looks.

“Must you come barging in here?” Elrond demanded querulously, “If Erestor had been here, he would have chased you out of Imladris for singing these alleysongs in this sanctum of knowledge and learning!”

“Ada, only Fëanor could have been as eloquent and boring as you in speeches,” Elladan yawned in mock boredom, “Actually, my arrival has a purpose.”

“Other than to torment us?” Glorfindel raised his eyebrows, “Then I am most curious. You have never entered the library seeking wisdom.”

“And I don’t intend to do that ever in my life,” Elladan promised sincerely, “Actually, I wanted to ask if you would mind Elrohir and me travelling to Greenwood. Thranduil would appreciate aid in the southern reaches of his forest.”

“I would not want the both of you to roam anywhere near Dol-Guldur!” Elrond exclaimed furiously, “How dare you even suggest it?”

“Elrond,” Glorfindel cut in thoughtfully, “Laiqua Thranduillion is in the northern reaches. The twins could accompany him for this season. Thranduil would be glad to redraft the spare warriors into his ranks.”

“Erestor has strict reservations against letting the twins ride out again this year. So have I,” Elrond remarked uneasily, “The lands are not getting any safer.”

“Celeborn has scoured the high pass,” Glorfindel advocated Elladan’s cause as the twin looked at him imploringly.

“I am not sure,” Elrond exhaled in pure irritation, “Plead your case with Erestor, then, young lord. If he agrees, I have no objection.”

 

Frowning, he strode to the lady’s chambers. Knocking briskly, he settled to an impatient wait. The door opened.

“My Lady, I am sorry to intrude on you so late,” he said politely, seeing her dishevelled hair and crumpled gown that were evidences of a disturbed night.

“It is fine,” she smiled weakly, trying to compose her features into a semblance of calm, “Anything amiss, Marchwarden?”

“My brother has not returned yet,” he paused wondering how to broach the matter with her, “After the last appointment with the Lord of Lothlórien. I was wondering if you would know something about their whereabouts.”

“I do not keep check of their doings the way you do,” Galadriel said coolly, “I suggest you ask the rumour-mills about their latest exploits. Search the banks of the Nimrodel or the treetops. I care not where they are.”

“I am worried,” Haldir said tentatively, “I shall send the warriors out.”

“Please, act as you think fit,” Galadriel said without the slightest worry creasing her features, “Now I have better things to see to.”

After he left, she closed the door and leant against it, her breath harsh and panting. She tried to control her shaking as images of pure hatred and desperation flashed through her mind. 

A few hours later, an urgent, low knocking on her door forced her out of her morose depression. 

She took a deep breath and said quietly, “A moment.”

Composing her features, she opened the door again.

“What have you done?” she managed to croak as he stood before her, dishevelled and looking wild.

“Nothing I shall regret,” he whispered as he leant against the door and closed his eyes, “Altáriel, we are doomed together.”

“Please, Celeborn,” she took his cold hands in her own and grasped them tightly, “I would kill you myself than letting you be doomed with me.”

“I know you would,” he laughed bitterly, “And I now understand how easy it is to kill my own kin. Kinslayer!” he stared at his hands, “I fear I am losing my mind. I still see blood on them.”

She shook her head and dragged him inside before seating him on the edge of her bed. He gratefully accepted the glass of water she handed him.

“He was cruel tonight,” he started in a shuddering voice, “More so than usual. I have always endured it. But this time, it was beyond my limits. I begged, I pleaded, it was of no use. The torment…something in me broke. I was no longer a creature of reasoning. I…”

“I know,” she whispered, “I felt it.”

“Altáriel,” he looked up at her with infinite weariness, “I would do it again. For us.”

She parted her lips, but nothing came out as she wrapped her hands about his torso and smoothed his hair. He rested his head on her shoulder as dry, wracking sobs shook him wretchedly.

 

“On The House of Finwë and those who stand by them, the doom of the kinslayers shall rest forever.”

* * *

“Elbereth!” Orophin’s voice was aghast and raw, “Haldir!”

Haldir did not reply as he saw the blood pooled near a convulsed corpse. The body seemed to be a parody of all that Rúmil had been. Orophin looked nauseated and clenched the door handle tightly for support. Haldir did not blame him. He felt sick to the stomach and his head was swirling. 

All because of the Noldor…his father had died in the Noldor massacre of Doriath trying to defend the twin sons of Dior…his mother had been slaughtered in cold blood by Maglor Fëanorion…Celebrían, his dearest friend, had been hurt so much by her mother’s schemes and husband’s cheating; and after everything, her future still was tied to the doom on her cursed house….And now, Rúmil….

Everyone he had considered dear seemed to be destroyed by the malice of the Noldor and the curse they were under.

“She killed him!” Orophin snarled in near-madness, “I will kill her!”

Haldir placed a restraining hand on his brother’s wrist and shook his head sadly, whispering, “We are not kinslayers.”

“You cannot say that! Not after she killed our own brother!” Orophin shouted.

“Orophin,” Haldir said urgently, “I will deal with this. You must not accuse her directly. Please, I cannot lose you too.”

His brother’s eyes met his own in desperate confusion. Haldir cleared his throat and said more calmly, “I will handle this, Orophin. Have faith in me.”

 

Erestor Maglorion pursed his lips thinly as he read the urgent epistle from Lothlórien. Galadriel had asked for his counsel though she had not trusted the entire matter to a messenger-borne letter. 

“….I really don’t think the twins should ride out soon,” Elrond was saying worriedly, “But keeping them here would just make them brood, Erestor. And you know how difficult they can be. Perhaps it would be better to send them to Thranduil…”

“Yes,” Glorfindel said in a coaxing tone, “Thranduil would make sure that they don’t get into trouble.”

Elladan and Elrohir exchanged mutual glances of confidence as Elrond and Glorfindel continued their cause with Erestor. Arwen had been able to persuade Elrond to let the twins go to Greenwood. But not even her charms had worked on Erestor, who had threatened to have the twins caravanned off to Círdan and put onto the first ship sailing west if they persisted in their ideas.

“Ada?” Elrohir threw a concerned glance at Erestor, who was still absently staring at his letter.

“You may go,” Erestor rose to his feet briskly and brushed away the crumbs of the slice of bread he had taken up, “I have things to see to. Be prepared to leave at dusk.”

“Ada?” Elladan asked uncertainly even as Elrond, Glorfindel, Arwen and Elrohir stared stupefied at Erestor who was walking out of the dining hall at a hurried pace, “Are you letting us go to Greenwood?”

Erestor paused at the door and fixed him with an intense stare before saying quietly, “You have my permission to go to Lothlórien. Your grandparents might need you there. Lord Aragorn is in Eriador, guarding the lands of the Halflings on Mithrandir’s instructions,” he trailed away, “Why would the wizard make him prowl there, I wonder? Unless…” his eyes widened, “I have been a fool.”

“You are,” Glorfindel said agreeably, “I’m sad that it took you so long to know that.”

Erestor spared him the usual sarcasm and instead turned to Elrond saying, “Elrond, we must find Gildor at any cost immediately, this is graver than I had suspected.”

“I will send out the message to the Rangers and to the warriors of the Wandering Company. And to Isengard. Saruman is wise,” Elrond said quietly as he discarded his breakfast and rose to his feet.

“I do not think Isengard needs to be told,” Erestor’s expression was tinged with fear, “Saruman is a liar, a betrayer. Am I the only one who sees it?”

“No,” Glorfindel said sighing exasperatedly, “Apparently your shadow sees it too, young lord! Will you rest your uncalled-for grievances against a reverent wizard?”

“Fine!” Erestor spat, “You forget very conveniently that I have rarely been wrong!”

“Saruman is a Maia,” Elrond sighed, “And you know their ways are peculiar though their motives are noble. You don’t think that Gildor’s disappearance had anything to do with him, do you?”

The chief-counsellor shook his head wearily, “I will not waste my time telling what I think of that. Elladan, Elrohir, get the reply to Galadriel’s letter from me in the afternoon. Perhaps at least she might take my counsel.”

“What has she done now?” Glorfindel asked with eyes narrowed.

“Believe me,” Erestor paused, examining the intricate carpet, “Something more foolish than making Rings of Power.”

“Then certainly, I have no wish to know,” Elrond said with a grimace. 

“I believe it would be better if I told you,” Erestor said hesitantly, “Rúmil has been killed.”

“Grandmother killed him?” Elladan rose to his feet in shock.

Arwen had gasped and clasped Elrohir’s hand tightly. Elrohir was staring at Erestor dazed. Glorfindel had dropped his cup of tea. Brown liquid stained his fresh green tunic though he had not noticed it yet. 

Elrond pressed a hand to his head and said wearily, “Tell me you jest.”

“I was never much good at jesting,” Erestor offered weakly, “As you should know well by now.”

“Why would she kill him?” Glorfindel asked in a numb voice, “It doesn’t make sense.”

“It makes a lot of sense,” Erestor said quietly as he met his friend’s confused gaze before turning to gaze at Elrond Half-Elven’s austere features, “Glorfindel, I would have done the same if I had been in her place.”

Elrond felt his breath catch in his chest as he whispered, “You would kill for me?”

“Was there ever a doubt?” Erestor smiled sadly before leaving the room, his head bowed and hands clenched together.

“Valar!” Elladan spoke as Erestor’s footsteps receded, “Ada, now you understand why you should never love a person of our House. They cling to their lovers like limpets.”

“Those of the house of Oropher are worse,” Elrohir cut in, bringing a suitable shade of crimson to his twin’s cheeks.

“What do you think, Glor?” Elrond asked his friend hopelessly, “This could not have come at a worse time. Thranduil is beset. Galadriel’s grip on Lothlórien was shaky enough before this.”

“I want to tear out the hearts from all our bodies and burn them in a blazing fire and scatter the ashes in the air,” Glorfindel said quietly, “Love, how I hate the word!”

 

“You have a very vague understanding of politics,” Haldir said coldly, “What you have done mars your reputation of being wise and seriously erodes you already paltry support in this realm.”

“Then what makes you think I have done it?’ Galadriel’s voice was unperturbed, “I could have done it decades before if I had set my mind to it.”

“I don’t understand,” he sighed, “He was my brother, and I shall be compelled to avenge him. Yours might have a crime of impulse, but it was a crime. And the greater sin it was that you did not kill Lord Celeborn, he was responsible for the mess.”

“Don’t pursue revenge, Haldir,” her face altered into genuine compassion, “I would not wish the doom of the kinslayers upon anyone.”

“I have no interest in incurring the wrath of the Valar; why else do you think you are alive yet?” Haldir retorted.

 

“You think still that Saruman is not to be trusted,” Elrond commented as he stood beside Erestor, waving to the twins who had already ridden out of the courtyard.

“Once you believed my counsel,” Erestor said sarcastically, “You think my brain has eroded with the centuries?”

“No,” Elrond chuckled, “Your senses have merely become acuter that you suspect everyone of something.”

“True,” Erestor smiled grudgingly, falling prey to Elrond’s charm as always, “You know what I suspect you of?”

“Hmm…” Elrond entwined his fingers with his companion’s, “I would be honoured to hear it.”

“You look at this Aragorn with something more intense than mere politeness,” Erestor stated dryly, “More than innocent interest!”

“Really; the gall to suggest that I might think of a man when my heart is in the hold of a paranoid chief-counsellor!” Elrond huffed, “Your intellect seems to be eroding then!”

“You lie, you do stare at Aragorn!” Erestor commented.

“He resembles Isildur so,” Elrond replied, “I do watch him for the slightest changes in character, one Isildur was enough to wreck our hopes.”

“One Isildur was enough to make us what we are now,” Erestor looked around the deserted gardens and raised Elrond’s hand to his chest and placed it over his heart, “If you had the will to resist the urge to fight him and die, because you wished to return to me, then, Elrond,” he paused, “I will gladly walk with you wherever the path leads.”

“You are most eloquent today,” Elrond said contentedly, “Not that I complain.”

“Time is waning for us,” Erestor said soberly, “I don’t wish to leave things unspoken even if some of them may sound incredibly trite and sentimental.”

Elrond met the sincere black eyes and said warmly, moved by the sudden vulnerability he saw there, “Sometimes, hearing trite and sentimental things do wonders to a weary soul. I trust your counsel. I shall not send the letter to Saruman.”

 

Estel took the latest epistle from Imladris, brought by a warrior elf. As he opened the scroll, he saw the epistle in an unfamiliar yet not unknown hand.

“It is Lord Erestor’s hand,” Mithrandir remarked as he bent over Estel’s shoulder, “Elrond must have shifted to assume control of the administration, I daresay. Then things are serious. They trade roles only when the need is dire.”

“I prefer Elrond’s letters,” Estel commented, “This is too diplomatic and gives us nothing.”

“Less easy for someone to interpret it should it fall into the wrong hands,” Mithrandir shrugged, “So, Estel, you keep an eye on Eriador, particularly in the Shire region…I will pay a visit to my old friend here; he’s celebrating a birthday. After that I must leave for Isengard.”

“Mithrandir,” Estel sighed, “Would you do us all a favour and get that creature Gollum to Imladris or Lothlórien or Isengard? It is folly to incur Thranduil’s wrath at this juncture. Laiqua is having a hard time.”

“After my visit with Saruman,” Mithrandir promised.

 

“Kill him…he is too wise and may foil my plans,” the elf read the scroll quietly before crumpling it and tossing it into the fireplace. 

 

Círdan watched his ships sail away into the west with a mixture of apprehension and wistful longing. 

 

“I wish I could just snatch a ship as we did in Alqualondë and sail back,” Maedhros Fëanorion murmured as he watched the ships in the quay, standing alongside the mariner.

“As do I,” Círdan smiled, “it seems most unfair to me that the Valar forgave Finarfin while they doomed you.”

“On the other hand, I cannot leave these shores. All those whom I loved, from my father and uncle to my brothers, my cousins and my warriors, they have all been slain here. How can I find rest in any other land?” Maedhros whispered.

“Lord Fingon…I am most sorry,” Círdan tentatively broached the subject that nobody had yet the courage to bring up.

“Who told you that we were lovers?” Maedhros turned to face him, his grey-black eyes dancing with weary amusement.

“His wife…and Ereinion,” Círdan murmured apologetically.

“The rumours have always been interesting,” Maedhros smiled, “It is true that he was my favourite cousin. Perhaps he loved me. But certainly, I can assure you we were not lovers.”

“He shouted your name to the skies when he was in bed with Ereinion’s mother,” Círdan sighed, “You did not know?”

“I stay away from emotional messes,” Maedhros admitted, “And I pretend not to see what was obvious. I have been broken enough without the pain of love.”

“So you and I are cowards who cling to the sword and the sea all the while running away from love,” Círdan laughed amusedly.

“So it would seem,” Maedhros’s lips quirked in a faint smile, “Though as the eldest scion of my house, it would be my lot to marry and heir…It’s just as well that there are no kingdoms to rule. My father would have been disappointed in me. He had wanted me to form an alliance even before we had been exiled.”

“Why didn’t you follow his advice?” Círdan asked curiously, watching the sunset turn the red hair of his companion a burning blaze.

“It was his advice!” Maedhros laughed, “He was never good at advising…”

They fell into companionable silence before Maedhros spoke again, this time with grave solemnity, “I want to beg of you a promise.”

“Should anything happen to you, I will stay guardian and mentor to all of your kin until the doom is wrought,” Círdan said steadily, “You need not ask for it.”

“We don’t deserve your kindness,” Maedhros whispered, “And you don’t deserve the wrath of the Valar.”

 

Círdan sighed as he turned to walk back into his castle, he had seen them suffer and die before his helpless eyes. Why had he chosen to stand by them? He had no answers himself.

 

Erestor stood at his study window, watching Glorfindel and Elrond spar in the courtyard, clad in just their leggings. For a moment, he indulged in watching the sleek grace of Glorfindel’s torso before moving his eyes to Elrond. A smile curled his lips as he admired the powerful, well-built body that he knew so well. As if he had sensed being watched, Elrond quirked his head up and winked at Erestor. Erestor smiled back, though his mind had been thrown back to the days when they had been living with the refugees of Celebrimbor’s city. They had swum, sparred and ridden together for all the lazy months. No duties, no responsibilities, no burdens…

“My Lord,” Melpomaen entered.

Erestor turned to face him. Another marvel, he mused absently. The elf had grown into an able advisor from the scared young elfling he had found in the woods. Melpomaen had taken over most of his travelling duties. He had proved himself to an able negotiator, particularly with Isengard. 

“The documents for the latest wizards’ council at Isengard,” Melpomaen murmured placing a scroll on Erestor’s magnificent desk.

“Thank you, young lord,” Erestor sat down and began reading through the scroll, wondering how the unassuming young elf had managed to negotiate with Saruman so well. Crucial information about Rohan and Gondor as always…what had it taken Melpomaen to persuade Saruman to part with this information? Unless…the sudden press of cold steel to his throat made things clearer.

“You pay far too attention to your surroundings when you work,” Melpomaen commented, “So many of your friends have warned you.”

Erestor placed the scroll on the desk and looked up at the elf he had helped raise. Melpomaen’s face was a cold mask as he pressed the sword further into the pale skin drawing a deep line of crimson. Erestor bit his tongue to prevent the hiss of pain that threatened to escape him and instead composed his features back into their usual calm.

“Why?” he stalled, Saruman’s instructions would have been to kill him immediately. He was too risky to the wizard’s plans.

“It is your sister that he still loves!” Melpomaen said harshly, inching the sword deeper, this time eliciting a shudder from his former mentor.

“I am not my sister, Mel,” Erestor said quietly, trying to think of something else than the fact that he was being slowly killed. He could fight, but Mel might panic and just slay him outright. How he rued his decision of not having his sword on him at all times! He tried to reach Elrond through their bond.

“No, you are worse!” Melpomaen shouted, “You sleep with the half-elf when you are still bound to the high-king!”

“Mel, young lord,” Erestor said calmly, “If you truly did love him, then you will know the power it has.”

“Lord Erestor!” Lindir flung open the door and stared transfixed at the sight before him, “What are you doing?”

“Stay away!” Melpomaen warned, “Else I will kill you too!”

Lindir looked horrified and shaken as he slowly stepped away, his eyes on the blood flowing down Erestor’s neck. Melpomaen took a deep breath and turned back to Erestor, this time clearly intent on completing his task. As he withdrew his sword and swung it forcefully again, he gasped and slumped onto Erestor helplessly. By reflex, Erestor caught him and took the sword away. His eyes widened as he saw the long intricate knife that was embedded in the back of Melpomaen’s robes. He looked up mechanically to see Lindir stand at the doorway, leaning against the handle, breathing harshly as if he had run a long distance. The flailing body atop him made Erestor look down again at the dying would-be assassin.

He took a deep calming breath and gathered up the body in his hands before calling aloud for the servants. After they took the writhing Melpomaen to the healing chambers, Erestor returned to Lindir, who was staring at the pool of blood on the carpet.

“You were quick,” Erestor said lamely, “Thank you.”

“You should pay more attention to your own safety before you delve into theories of betrayal and diplomacy,” Lindir whispered, “I was once a warrior who had fought Morgoth beside your ancestors. I had vowed that I would never kill again…that elven blood would never stain my blade again…”

Erestor did not reply, the move had been a killing one. They both knew that. He embraced his saviour tightly, his head giddy with the sudden loss of blood and the shock of betrayal by one whom he had loved so. He closed his eyes in exhaustion and grief. As Lindir’s hands tentatively moved to wrap around his waist, Erestor remembered that the elder elf was rarely comfortable with touch. Cursing himself for not remembering that, Erestor made to withdraw when he felt his companion’s fingers dig into his spine in convulsive desperation.

“I am a kinslayer,” Lindir smiled bitterly, “Who will consent to love me?”

“But there is someone who intrigues you,” Erestor said quietly, “I can see that in your eyes, my friend.”

“Would you voluntarily embroil yourself in yet one more tangled matter, My Lord?” Lindir smiled sadly before pulling his hand from Erestor’s and walking away.

Erestor cursed himself again, he had been a fool. Lindir removed himself from the embrace and said quietly, “I will always be at your side. And Lord Elrond’s. I have always wanted the best for you both.”

As he walked away, Erestor slumped against the wall thinking of the simplicity of Círdan’s life.

“My Lady Elbereth,” he whispered sadly, “The whole purpose of your game seems to be to drive me into blasphemy.”

* * *

“My Lord,” the slaver said hesitantly, “It is past the time he had agreed upon to come.”

“Do you fear a trap?” Thranduil asked quietly, his green eyes scanning the vast expanse of the grasslands.

“I am disposable. And you are worth the trouble,” the man shrugged.

A brilliant yellow beacon flared in the south before fading away abruptly. Thranduil pulled his companion down into the crevice they had been hiding in.

“That was the signal,” the man hissed, “He comes.”

Thranduil nodded. Then he rose to his full height and unsheathed his sword before whispering, “Stay put here. Try to save yourself if I am indeed betrayed. You might or might not be in league with my enemies. But I wish you to escape unscathed. As you said, you are disposable.”

“My Lord!” the man said astounded, “You cannot mean----”

Thranduil pressed his index finger to his lips before silently gliding away into the darkness.

 

Elrond sighed as he stood by the window in Erestor’s bedchamber. He could hear the sounds of retching from the bathchamber. But since the door had been securely barred from within, he could not enter and offer his aid. And he was not sure what he should say. A part of him cursed Melpomaen. A part of him wanted to kill Saruman. Yet, mostly, he grieved for Erestor. He knew that the chief-counsellor had loved the young elf as a son. And Lindir…

“Elrond,” Erestor’s voice was hoarse and dry as the door opened, “I did not hear you come in.”

“He’s dead,” Elrond said bleakly, “Glorfindel blames himself for this. Lindir too mourns.”

“There are greater forces at work than mere jealousy for a long absent love,” Erestor shook his head as he poured out wine for them both. Elrond moved to his side and gently pulled him over to the bed.

“I have to find Gildor,” Erestor said wearily, “I am afraid something has befallen him.”

“I am sure that he is merely taking a well-deserved sojourn in the Fangorn Forests,” Elrond reassured him, “Now, get out of these blood-sodden robes and try to pull yourself together. I need you strong.”

“I will be all right,” Erestor shook his head with a wan smile, “I am not so affected by death usually. But I loved the poor child as my own fosterling.”

“I wish it had been one of our blades instead of Lindir’s that had killed him,” Elrond said softly, “We are doomed anyway. It seems unfair that he is bound to our fates.”

“The theory that Galadriel and you are so fond of, in which you have proclaimed that the Valar are out to destroy our house,” Erestor’s lips quirked faintly, “I suppose this is a proof that will bolster your theory.”

“You do not believe in my theory?” Elrond asked in a mock offended tone.

“I do,” Erestor laughed weakly, “That is what worries me. I had never believed in it before today.”

 

“Lower your hood, elf,” the hoarse, deep voice growled from the darkness in broken Sindarin.

Thranduil stilled abruptly. He had not heard the creature approaching. He could discern a large shadow against the sickly pale moonlight. Larger than any orc he had seen, yet not a wraith. What was this?  
“Lower your hood,” the gravely voice commanded.

“Which orc speaks Sindarin?” Thranduil stalled as he tried to think of all the creatures he had fought and learnt about. He was reasonably sure that he had no idea of what he was facing.

“Those who serve Saruman,” the voice leered.

“You are no orc,” Thranduil whispered defiantly, “Lord Saruman accepts no alliance with orcs.”

But he felt the familiar dull tinge of instinct spread through his blood. Something was wrong. He could feel the malice that tainted the atmosphere. It was not that of Mordor. It reminded him of Isengard, the stone fortress of Rohan. Saruman, Thranduil’s insides clenched in the shock of betrayal.

 

“I cannot trust anyone just because they sailed from Valinor,” Erestor’s voice was cool.

“He’s a wizard,” Thranduil said defensively, “You cannot suspect him of anything but the noblest of intentions.”

“I have always acknowledged your talent to know the intent in the minds of elves, wizards and men. But Ernil-nîn, in this matter, I have my doubts, he is clever and polite,” Erestor shook his head.

 

“I am no orc, elf,” the voice rasped, “I am an Uruk-Hai. Lord Saruman’s creation. He has bred a race from orc and elf through torture and alchemy.”

The figure stepped into the clearing. Thranduil flinched as he saw the hideous form encased in cold battle armour. Taller, broader and more intelligent than any orc. And Thranduil knew that the creature was craftier and well-skilled in moving undetected. If Saruman had bred an entire army of this, then…Thranduil shuddered. He should have taken Erestor’s counsel. His old friend had never trusted the soft-spoken wizard. He had probably been lured into this. But he would fight…he bit his inner cheek.

Gathering his courage and will, he faced his opponent calmly. Sheathing his sword, he raised his hands to his hood and pulled it back to reveal his distinctive features.

“I am Thranduil Oropherion, King of Greenwood. What is your business with me tonight?” he asked with his usual haughty detachment.

“You seem to be unaffected by my news,” the Uruk-Hai laughed, “Well, Oropherion has always been renowned for his poise.”

“What is your purpose?” Thranduil asked coldly.

“A barter,” the creature said in a lower voice, “A life for a life.”

“Whose life?” Thranduil knit his eyebrows in genuine bewilderment, “I have no lives to bargain for.”

“I have with me Gildor Inglorion,” the Uruk-Hai said in a cold tone as Thranduil inhaled sharply, “It is his life that we are bartering for.”

Thranduil clenched his jaw in anger, fear and shock. He had not known that his friend had been held captive. And that too, by Saruman, a professed ally to their cause. Now, an Uruk-Hai from Isengard had lured him out with this.

“Gildor’s head is worth as much as mine to any enemy of ours,” Thranduil willed himself into diplomatic coolness, though nothing had seemed harder in life, “Nobody in their right sense would barter him for me.”

“But it is not you that we are talking of,” the Uruk-Hai said solemnly, “I have a deal. If you give me your word that you shall follow my instructions, I will take you to your friend. He is dying. Perhaps, with urgency and care, he might survive.”

“Elbereth!” Thranduil blanched, he knew instinctively that this was no lie, “Take me to him, please. I shall give you anything in my power that you may ask for.”

“I will,” the creature said, “If you give me your word.”

“I do. And I have never broken it in my life,” Thranduil said unsteadily, “Take me to him.”

 

Erestor gently disentangled his limbs from Elrond’s body and rose from the bed. A familiar feeling of unease washed over him.

“’Restor,” Elrond said wearily, “Glor has asked you to stay away until he finishes the funeral.”

“I am going to stay away,” Erestor muttered as he stripped to his leggings hurriedly, “I am riding for Eriador. I must find Mithrandir before the fool goes to Isengard.”

Elrond rose from the bed in alarm saying, “You cannot mean that you are riding through the lands in this perilous situation! I will have none of that!”

“We cannot lose Mithrandir,” Erestor said practically, “If you would send an escort with me, I promise to return in three days unharmed and hale.”

“Can the escort include half-elves?” Elrond asked hopelessly, he hated the idea of Erestor travelling with a paltry escort in the lands where even Gildor had come to harm. He knew Erestor would balk at the idea of Elrond accompanying him. It was an ironic fact that they both seemed to be at their happiest when the other was cloistered safely in Imladris. And Elrond realized that one of them had to be in the valley in charge. Erestor was the faster rider.

“Half-elves are rare,” Erestor smiled, “Not as dispensable as full-elves, I say. And after all the trouble I had to get a half-elf, I am not going to risk that illustrious life.”

“Should I cry touched by your words or wring your neck for your stubborn cosseting of me?” Elrond enquired wryly.

“Either would be unwelcome,” Erestor laughed as he buttoned his tunic and leant to kiss Elrond’s forehead, “However, I would appreciate a passionate welcome when I return dishevelled, smelling of horse and pipeweed.”

“I want nothing more to do with you should you sleep with that wizard,” Elrond crinkled his nose.

 

Thranduil followed the Uruk-Hai into the gorge. His elven senses were hampered by the claustrophobic caves into which he was lead. He fought down the rising panic in his guts and tried to even his breathing. His idea of death had always involved heroic exploits under the sun on a battlefield. And it would be grimly ironic if he met a cowardly end in a cave. His cold, morbid fantasies were put to an end when warmth seeped through his sword onto his hand. He looked down to see the green gem of Galadriel glowing incandescently in the darkness.

“Here,” the voice spoke harshly, breaking in on Thranduil’s thoughts.

Thranduil looked up to see a huddled form in the corner of the cave, tucked in by a coarse wolf-skin. He gasped. Even in this state, it was impossible to not distinguish the sharp features of Gildor; the features of the House of Finwë.

He made to move past the Uruk-Hai to get to his friend’s side. But a strong metal-cased arm stopped him, almost crushing his ribcage.

“You have a promise to fulfil,” the Uruk-Hai reminded him.

Thranduil looked up in wild apprehension. Nothing made sense. He was lured by an Uruk-Hai using a slaver into a cave in Celeborn’s lands. He had learnt from the Uruk-Hai that their close ally, Isengard, had betrayed them all. And the creature was bargaining with him over Gildor’s life without just killing them both, or taking them to Saruman.

“I want you to kill me,” the creature growled.

“What?” Thranduil fairly shouted in near madness, his head befuddled, his mind revolted by the strange smell that emanated from Gildor, his claustrophobia rising.

“Kill me and then, tend to your friend,” the creature growled, “Else, I will kill you both; or better yet, take you to my Master. Would you do that, willingly, to be tortured and tormented until you are broken into primal creatures?”

Thranduil leant against the wall, sweat forming on his brow. He centred his focus on the yellow, calculating eyes of the Uruk-Hai.

“I would rather do that than kill anyone in cold blood,” Thranduil said faintly, “To kill in war is different. To kill in combat, to kill in self-defence…but killing in cold blood is not something I can do.”

“Then you leave me no choice but to take you both to Saruman. I saved him from Isengard and took a perilous journey north. I wanted to do something in penance. But as always, I am thwarted. Then, Oropherion, I must seal your doom,” the voice was cold.

“What are you?” Thranduil asked hoarsely, his head spinning with revulsion and befuddlement, “What creature are you to speak thus?”

The yellow eyes flicked to the glowing green gem before reverting to Thranduil’s pale face. Gildor’s body convulsed and a low moan rose from him, as he relived some torment. Thranduil flinched.

“Kill me, and he shall have a chance at life,” the creature commanded.

Thranduil nodded shakily. He wanted to save his friend. He had to save himself too. He could not be spared. His son might be able to cope without him. But he knew that Greenwood could not.

The creature went down on its knees and bowed its head. Thranduil took a deep breath to calm himself and raised his sword. Gildor’s screams of pain and relived memories spurred him on. He swung the sword through the stale air and closed his eyes as the sickening crush through hard flesh resounded in the cave. He had never killed in cold blood before. An unearthly scream of torment echoed from the creature before it slumped to the floor, its head half-distended from its body. It flailed and convulsed in the throes of death. The green stone of the sword glowed to an intense luminosity lighting the cave eerily.

Thranduil vomited as he saw the yellow eyes turn grey-black in the green light. The eyes of the House of Finwë.

“Celebrimbor,” he whispered as he sank down to his knees beside the dying creature and reached out with his hand to touch the forehead.

The eyes met his horrified gaze calmly and lost focus. The body convulsed one final time before giving in to Mandos. Thranduil shakily rose to his feet, his sword on the ground. He doubled up again to vomit pathetically.

He had killed Celebrimbor Curufinwion. He had killed an elf who had wrought his first circlet of office, his signet ring and his sword. He had killed Celebrimbor with a sword made by the Ringsmith himself.

Thranduil laughed hysterically, tears flooding down his face. He looked down at his blood stained sword. He convulsed in laughter, his melodious voice mocking him in echoes in the small cave.

He had killed an elf; he was a kinslayer.

Gildor cried out in pain, convulsing into a balled position. Thranduil stopped laughing, his face draining of all colour as he rushed to his friend’s side. He tentatively pulled away the wolf-skin to see Gildor’s face. Bruised, mottled and burnt to almost unrecognizable horror. Thranduil laughed again, his head spinning with whirling emotions.

 

Erestor bit his lips to control his steed even as he fought off the cacophony of voices that was pounding into his head.

Laughter…hysterical laughter….he wondered if he was finally losing his mind. Celeborn had always believed that those of the house of Finwë would fall into insanity at some point or the other.

“My Lord,” a warrior, who formed part of his escort, asked.

Erestor shook his head apologetically and tried to clear his confused thoughts. It was then that he stilled; he knew that laughter.

 

“Ernil-nîn?” a familiar voice asked him concernedly.

“I am going mad, ‘Restor,” Thranduil proclaimed, “I am a kinslayer. I killed an elf to save an elf.”

“Thranduil,” Erestor’s voice was tinged with worry and fear, “Where are you?”

Erestor gripped the dark mane of his mount tightly as he listened to his friend’s incoherent story. He absently noted that his clenched hands were stark white against the black hair of the horse, drained of colour.

“Get out of that cursed cave and take Gildor with you. NOW!,” Erestor’s voice commanded Thranduil firmly.

Thranduil leant against the cave walls to draw in a deep breath, fighting down nausea. Then he picked up his sword, stepped over the corpse and hurried to his friend. Gildor’s imprisonment made him almost as light as Anoriel once had been, Thranduil noticed absently. With Erestor’s mind merging in with his, lending him strength and sense, he carried his friend out of the cave, not turning back once at the corpse he had left behind in the darkness.

Gildor still writhed in his arms, eyes unfocussed and blank. Thranduil could sense the coldness of the body he carried, as well as smell the strange, undefined scent of Mandos hovering in the air about them. Gildor Inglorion was dying.

“My Lord!” the slaver rushed to his side, looking equally terrified and worried, “What happened?”

“My friend is dying,” Thranduil whispered, looking as lost as he had been on the day he had helplessly watched his father die before him.

“Thranduil,” Erestor’s voice was coloured with grief and pain, “There is nothing you can do for him. You must get back to Greenwood. Dol Guldur and the environs of Isengard are not safe.”

Gildor’s eyes focussed blearily on Thranduil. He frowned as he saw the pain-ridden features of his friend.

“Ernil-nîn?” he mumbled, “You have come again.”

“What?” The slaver asked bewildered, “My Lord, he is delirious.”

Thranduil placed the body on the brown grass and knelt beside it, trying to ascertain the heartbeat.

“Do not defy me again, Oropherion.”

“Namo Mandos,” Thranduil cursed even as the man gaped at him, “Please, not him. His cousin gave up life for him.”

“Save him then, if you can, Oropherion,” the voice resounded harshly, “Keep him with you if you have the means to do that!”

“……Come, Elrond. Now is our chance to keep him with us.”

“My healing energy will not be enough,” Elrond said with tears flowing down his cheeks as he watched Erestor shiver in Thranduil’s arms.

“Your healing energy is not required,” Thranduil said angrily, “Bind with him now, and pull him back…..”*

(Refer The Song Of Sunset – Chapter Forty: ‘Even The Stars Fall 2’)

Thranduil flinched as he remembered that last night of battle. Elrond had been brave enough to pull Erestor back from Mandos. Was Thranduil capable of that selfless sacrifice?

Finwë, Míriel and Indis. Anoriel had chosen to stay forever in the Halls of Mandos. She had broken their bonds unknowingly. But he knew that she had loved him as much as he loved her till this day.

He hurriedly unclasped his hood and threw his cloak on the brown grass. Then he removed his tunic hastily.

“My Lord?” the slaver asked incredulously.

“I think you should leave,” Thranduil said quietly as he discarded his tunic. The man gaped as the starlight shone down on the magnificent golden body. Their eyes met. Thranduil’s green eyes glittered with determined recklessness.

“I will stay guard,” the man gulped before hurrying away, “Until you finish whatever you want to do.”

“I would be grateful,” Thranduil said sincerely before stripping down his leggings.

Then he removed the wolfskin from Gildor’s naked body. He had seen his friend many a time naked, but never as vulnerable and battered as this. The ribs jutted out painfully and breath came in short, weak spurts. Feeling a sudden fear, he covered the dying elf with his own body and brought their foreheads into contact. He was about to bring down the doom of Finwë on his line. He hesitated. Were the consequences worth this?

“Ernil-nîn?” Erestor’s voice was panic-wrought, “Has he died? Where are you?”

Thranduil grimly made a cut with his sword on his wrist and let his blood fall onto the earth, “I renounce my vows to Anoriel, daughter of Amroth, Valar be my witness. Grant me absolution from my bond, O Eru Almighty.”

He did not know if he had been released from his vows, but he refused to hesitate any longer. He dully reflected that he did not experience that tearing feeling Galadriel and Celeborn had felt. Perhaps it was because Anoriel was dead. He did not care. He brought his bleeding wrist to Gildor’s scarred flesh and let his blood seep into his friend’s veins. A sudden jolt of pain shook him involuntarily before he lost consciousness, falling limp atop his friend. The bond was made.

 

Erestor shuddered as he felt Thranduil renounce his vows. He looked up at the stars imploringly hoping that his friend’s vow be granted.

Thranduil had become a kinslayer. If he had been forced an oathbreaker too, then what would be the difference between their fates?

 

He stirred slowly, his mind still reliving the fiery forges and bitter cold of Isengard. Something warm, heavy and smooth smothered him. He shivered as he smelt the familiar scent of fresh pine. He opened his eyes a crack, wondering why his pain had receded to bearable limits. A golden head rested on his bruised shoulder, the weight comforting and pleasant. Green eyes were wide open in unconscious reverie. He decided that Saruman must have finally broken his mind to insanity.

“My Lord,” a human was trying to move the prone body away from him. He pursed his lips, he hated humans. Saruman had many in his service and they were quite cruel.

The emerald eyes focussed exhaustedly and he heard a much loved voice whisper, “You are saved.”

The melodious tones washed over him, lulling him into a ridiculously warm reverie.

 

Celeborn opened his door hastily before the visitor broke it down; he looked askance at Galadriel, who stood panting and tearful.

“The Mirror…Thranduil found Gildor,” she whispered in an incoherent sentence, “Killed Celebrimbor. Broke his vows to Anoriel. Pulled Gildor from Mandos. His bond has been accepted by the Valar,” tears gathered in her eyes, “He too is now an oathbreaker and a kinslayer!”

“He is no oathbreaker,” Celeborn said after a long moment of numbness, he tried to thrash out matters with his usual pragmatism, “The Valar have released him from his vows to Anoriel. And Celebrimbor was not an elf anymore. I doubt it is kinslaying.”

Galadriel shook her head tiredly, “Why him too?”

Celeborn had no answer. They stared at each other for an unbearably long moment. He was about to draw her into a comforting embrace when she turned away whispering, “I must send a missive to Imladris then.”

 

“My Lord?” the man asked worriedly as Thranduil lifted Gildor’s body onto the horse and wrapped it in his own cloak.

“I am fine,” Thranduil said in a low voice, his face drained of any traces of colour, he winced as he mounted his horse, “We must ride back to my lands. He needs the healers immediately. You have kept your deal. Now you must see to your son.”

“My son is beyond help,” the man said quietly, “No, My Lord,” he hesitated, “I will see you safely back to your lands and then be on my way. You look drained.”

“All the better picking for slavers,” Thranduil laughed ironically, “I don’t think I would be able to even put up a token resistance now.”

“You cannot cross Dol Guldur on your own,” the man said steadily, “I will guide you back to safety until we reach one of your patrols. Then I shall leave you.”

They began their long journey north, silence falling between them. Twice, the man alerted them to orcs and guided Thranduil to safety. Towards dawn, Thranduil had slumped forward in weary pain, his hands clinging onto Gildor’s figure. And the man led both the horses quietly. He tapped Thranduil awake when they had finally reached the realm of Greenwood.

“Thank you,” Thranduil said with an uncharacteristic vulnerability, “For not questioning my actions, for not betraying me, for not taking advantage, for this…You have restored my trust in your race. I do not know how to repay you ever.”

“That shall be my reward,” the man smiled briefly, “Take care of your friend. He has a second chance at life. Ask him not to discard it; for it is bought with blood, tears and pain. Fare well, Lord Oropherion.”

“And farewell, noble elf-friend. The doors of Thranduil shall ever be open to you,” Thranduil spoke sincerely.

“I wish it were not so,” the man shook his head, “You must sail to the lands without turmoil. Your nobility and magnificence cannot be wasted on this unforgiving soil. Leave, while you can, My Lord.”

 

Galadriel stood by her Mirror, she was thrown back in time. During the war in Eregion, she had watched the young Sindar prince fight for his life. She sighed. The Prince had been strong in mind and devoted to his father. He had defied Mandos to return to Oropher’s side. She had sincerely wished that he would never regret defying the call of death. For nobody denied Mandos without paying the highest cost. *

(* Refer The Song Of Sunset: Chapter Nine –‘Celebrimbor’s Folly 5’)

Now, after Thranduil had lit the pyres of all that he had held dear, Galadriel knew that Mandos would exact more for his defiance.

“Stay safe, Laiqua Thranduillion,” she whispered to the trees.

* * *

“Elves!” Estel said, “At a tough pace. They have the banners of Imladris.”

Mithrandir murmured, “Might be Lord Inglorion. Though he was supposed to take the western marches of Anduin this year.” 

He dismounted as he saw the standard bearers, cursing under his breath. Estel hissed, “It is not Lord Inglorion. The banners bear the standard of the elder house of Finwë.”

“Lord Maglorion,” the herald proclaimed, before moving out of the path. 

Estel once again rued the differences between the races of men and elves as Erestor rode forth on his magnificent, black stallion; his pale, aristocratic features adorned only by the lightest circlet of pure silver. The black riding cloak that he wore parted away as he dismounted to reveal a sheer silken tunic and leather leggings of the deepest brown. Estel gave Erestor a grudging glance of admiration as the chief-counsellor strode forward gracefully towards Mithrandir. There was a regal aura about those of the house of Finwë that was remarkable even amongst the race of elves. 

“Lord Erestor,” Estel bowed as was expected.

“Lord Aragorn,” Erestor nodded solemnly, though he did not bow. He turned towards Mithrandir, who was nonchalantly smoking his pipe.

“What brings you here with all pomp and pageantry?” Mithrandir asked as he puffed out a circlet of smoke.

“A word alone with you, if I might,” Erestor said quietly.

“Ever at your service,” Mithrandir wrapped his hand around his companion’s waist and led him away from the path.

“You are bound for Isengard,” Erestor said soberly, “I came hither to intercept you before you reach Saruman. He has betrayed us, completely.”

“You are still against him,” Mithrandir said quietly, “Erestor, my dear friend, you are troubled.”

“Melpomaen tried to kill me,” Erestor said urgently, his voice low and pained, “He was acting under Saruman’s instructions!” 

Mithrandir saw the scar on Erestor’s neck and raised one gnarled finger to it saying, “I am glad then you are safe. But I wish you had not been proved right through this pain. What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to help me find the Ring,” Erestor said coldly, “I know you have traced it. Where exactly in Eriador is it?”

“It is with a Halfling,” Mithrandir whispered, throwing furtive glances around, “I wanted to take him to Imladris. There are rumours. I must make haste to Greenwood and interrogate that creature Gollum again. It is not safe. I wished to take counsel with Saruman before that.”

Erestor exhaled deeply before remarking, “We are in deep trouble. Saruman’s spies have penetrated almost all the lands.”

“What is your counsel?” Mithrandir asked gravely, “We need to act fast.”

“It is at a late hour that you ask my counsel, Mithrandir,” Erestor said sadly, “We are betrayed and outnumbered.”

“I have no idea what we are to do,” Mithrandir said resignedly, “Saruman had been my last hope.”

“Let the Halfling come to Imladris,” Erestor said coldly, “Enough grief have you all wrought through the sin of trust. From now, we shall move along Galadriel’s path. The path of the truly desperate.”

“What do you mean?” Mithrandir asked worriedly.

“Meet Saruman,” Erestor averted his eyes and examined the specks of dust on his riding cloak, “Buy us time. I will need to inform Thranduil. Perhaps he might be able to find a solution.”

“What of the Halfling?” Mithrandir demanded concernedly, “I had asked him to come to Bree. I was to accompany him from there.”

“Your business with Saruman will not be over so soon,” Erestor smiled sardonically, “I will send Glor to fetch the Halfling. Provided you have arranged on tokens.”

“Yes, with the inn-keeper of that town,” Mithrandir nodded, “Glorfindel and Elladan will know him. You advise me to walk into Isengard when it might be a trap?”

“I am out of options. Would you sacrifice what you can for buying me time to think of a way out of this mess?” Erestor asked sadly, “I cannot do anything more. Gildor has brought us enough time with his captivity in Isengard,” Mithrandir’s eyes widened in shock, “Yes, it is true. For now, he is with Thranduil. Now Saruman will know that Mel has failed in his attempt. I cannot do anything with the hand I have been dealt, Mithrandir, it has not even a fool’s hope.”

“I will go to Isengard,” Mithrandir nodded grimly, “Keep the Halfling safe. I leave him in your hands.”

“He will be safe,” Erestor smiled weakly, “I will make sure of that. Lord Aragorn can bring him safely till Bree, I hope. Try to save yourself from Saruman’s wiles. I have no choice, Mithrandir, understand that I would have gone to Isengard myself if I could.”

“You cannot be spared. I might be able to worm my way out safely,” Mithrandir grinned more for his own benefit than Erestor’s, “After all, I am Istaari.”

Erestor smiled and walked back towards where his escort and Estel waited. Mithrandir looked westwards towards the lands from where he had come after defying the edict of Manwë. Sighing, he trudged after his friend.

“Lord Aragorn,” Erestor nodded to Estel, “I hope you will grace us with a visit soon. The twins are coming at the turn of the season.”

“It would be my pleasure to hunt alongside them once again. My Lord,” Estel smiled sincerely, before standing back to let Erestor mount his stallion, “Convey my wishes to Lord Elrond and the Lady Undómiel.”

“Erestor, the Halfling,” Mithrandir said uneasily.

“He will be safe. You have my word of honour,” Erestor said quietly.

 

“You are sure that he will recover completely?” Thranduil asked Thalion quietly as he joined the veteran healer in the dark dining chamber. 

He pushed away the large bowl of broth placed before his seat and slumped onto his chair. He reached for the bottle of the Dorwinion, but Thalion fixed him with a stern glare. He sighed and pulled the bowl of broth towards him and picked up the spoon. From long centuries of cohabitation, he knew that Thalion was unlikely to utter a word until Thranduil finished his repast.

“Thank you for reminding me that I have a body that needs occasional sustenance,” Thranduil grumbled about a spoonful of the hot liquid.

Thalion smirked before carving the meat and passing over a plateful to his companion. As he busied himself with the wine, he scrutinized Thranduil carefully. There was an unusual nervousness about the king; the long fingers tapped the table in a disturbed staccato; the creases playing unfairly on the noble forehead. 

“He will live,” Thalion said soothingly.

“Well, that is not news to me, O wise healer,” Thranduil snorted, laying down his spoon and picking up the goblet of his favoured wine, “I knew that when the bond started draining energy from me. I want to know how well he will recover.”

“That depends on his bonded-mate, does it not?” Thalion asked soberly, “He has been asking for you.”

“I will speak with him,” Thranduil gulped down his wine, “Elbereth! Thalion, what have I got myself into? Whatever it brings, I will not regret it!”

Thalion rose to his feet and came over to stand beside his king, reflecting once again on the differences between Thranduil and Oropher. Thranduil was cold and ruthless where Oropher had been warm and compassionate. Laiqua was more in Oropher’s mould than Thranduil. Perhaps it had been the extent of the time Thranduil had spent with the Noldor that had made him so.

 

“Grandmother,” Elrohir smiled as he entered Galadriel’s gardens and walked towards the arbour where she was seated. 

“Elrohir,” she smiled warmly before moving to make space for him, “Rare to find you away from your brother.”

“He is hunting with Grandfather,” Elrohir shrugged as he sat down, “They have much in common, starting from a love of hunting to an appalling lack in manners.”

“Well, I am glad then that it is you and not your brother who is courting Undómiel,” Galadriel laughed, “I had a letter from her.”

“We wish to bond,” Elrohir said carefully. 

That had been his main reason for seeking her out alone. She could be a powerful ally when he made his case to Erestor on his return to Imladris. Erestor had refused to listen when he had obliquely hinted at the matter. Unlike Elladan, who had always chosen the direct, confrontational approach, Elrohir preferred to use his guile to reach his goals.

“That is a matter of deep import,” Galadriel said quietly, “Have you spoken to Elrond or Erestor?”

“Ada Elrond wishes me to wait until Arwen has travelled and seen all the elven kingdoms…so that she might make an uninfluenced choice. Ada Erestor is against the idea of bonding in these unsettled times. I mean to bind soon though, regardless of their wishes,” Elrohir said seriously.

“You shall always be welcome where I am. What is mine is ever yours,” Galadriel sighed, “But I do wish that you do not embitter your parents’ hearts with your choices and decisions. That which you do unto your parent shall be done by your offspring unto you. It is a lesson I have learnt through grief.”

“You advise me against an early binding,” Elrohir said cautiously, “Is it because of the consequences you had from an early binding? Or perhaps foresight?”

“Do your best by her, Elrohir,” Galadriel sighed, “And that shall be enough.”

“You have my word of honour that I shall ever do my best by her,” Elrohir said quietly.

 

“Gildor,” Thranduil smiled weakly as he sat down by the convalescing elf’s sickbed, “I am glad to see you haler.”

“So am I,” Gildor said worriedly as he took in the unusual vulnerability that seemed to radiate from his friend. There were deep shadows under the weary, green eyes that spoke of sleepless nights. 

Gildor felt a familiar pang of misery rise in him; he was once more reduced to seeing his friend suffer without being able to do anything to alleviate that.

“I had never expected to see you again,” Gildor changed the topic, “Or to step outside Isengard ever. I was thrice a fool for not listening to Erestor’s suspicions about the cursed wizard. Thank you, for saving me. It was the greatest miracle to wake up in my usual bed at Greenwood instead of that dank cell in the fortress of Saruman.”

“You were more likely to wake up in the Halls of Mandos than in the fortress of Isengard,” Thranduil sighed as he pulled up his legs and leant his back against the head of the bed, “You were half-way there, you idiot. You have turned me both a kinslayer and an oathbreaker.”

“What?” Gildor spluttered as he tried to rise from the bed; pure shock writ on his features.

“Yes,” Thranduil muttered, “I thought it would be too kind to you if I were to let you escape to Mandos,” he paused and stared at his intertwined fingers, “Erestor would always deplore your passing, since he would not have been able to remind you of his superior instincts at every possible opportunity. So I decided to keep you alive…And very enthusiastically you responded to my method too.”

“My prince!” Gildor closed his eyes in disbelieving bafflement, “Do you mean what I suspect you do? If so, I am dreaming, in Lórien…not in Mandos!” he opened his eyes again as if expecting to be in a different place.

“No,” Thranduil stated flatly, holding Gildor’s panicked gaze coolly, “I am bound to you, whether you like it or not. And I don’t regret it. So get well soon and stay away from wizards. Now I have a realm to run,” he rose to his feet, masking the fear and insecurity that had risen in him on seeing Gildor’s panic.

“Thranduil,” Gildor took a deep breath and walked quickly to prevent the door closing behind his friend, “We need to talk about these…developments.”

“I am sure that it can be delayed until you are in a better state of health,” Thranduil smiled wanly, “As I said, that should be your most important concern now.”

“Why did you do it?” Gildor asked in weary hopelessness as Thranduil began walking down the corridor, “Except for the obvious reason that you needed me alive to fight Mordor, was there any other motive?”

Thranduil paused and turned saying incredulously, “The only obvious reason I had was that I could not let you pass into Mandos! Whatever they say, I still have a heart that can bleed for a friend, who has been with me through everything!” 

“Thranduil,” Gildor sighed, “Being bound to a friend is not the same as being bound to the one who is your soul-mate. You broke your vows to Anoriel,” he glanced uneasily at the large portrait of the lady that hung in the corridor. Thranduil flinched as he followed Gildor’s gaze.

Gildor said uncomfortably, emotion and reason warring for dominance in his heart, “Thranduil, what I mean to say is that you should not have broken a bond hallowed by the Valar to save a friend. Friendship is noble, but the love of a soul-mate is even more pure. What have you thrown away?”

Thranduil leant back against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes narrowing to polished emeralds, sending a frisson of desire down Gildor’s spine. Gildor gritted his teeth. Even while in this physically weak state, his heart and body could not withstand the passion aroused by the mere sight of his friend.

“Do you regret being alive?” Thranduil asked coldly.

“No,” Gildor said truthfully, “I have never regretted that even while I was being tormented to insanity. My zest for life is as strong as ever.”

“Do you regret that I am bound to you?” Thranduil asked poisonously, “Once you are recovered enough, release me from my bond then.”

“No,” Gildor said firmly. He had rarely seen his friend in such a foul temper. But he had seen it often in Elrond. And he knew that only the plain truth would save the day...and their friendship. He continued boldly, “I would not have you trapped in an unequal bond, Thranduil. While I am not your soul-mate, and I can never mean to you what she did, I can offer you whatever is in my power to do so. A mind to lend you strength, a body to comfort you…”

“I cannot ask all that of you merely because you wish to repay a debt of life,” Thranduil said with a wry smile, though his eyes betrayed his turmoil, the conflict between the loneliness of centuries and the fidelity to his dead queen.

“And what if that is what I wish,” Gildor narrowed his eyes, “I would never endanger our friendship for lust, Thranduil. If you are not comfortable, we can always return to what we were. Still, for both our sakes, you might honour me with a trial.” 

He tried to suppress the shaking of his hands, why had he been always a fool when it came to Thranduil Oropherion? It had taken him many liaisons and disastrous affairs before he realized the truth; he had fallen for Thranduil from the first time in Lindon when the young prince had so sensually made love to him at the base of the fountain in the gardens below the king’s chambers.*

(*Refer The Song Of Sunset : Chapter 1 –‘ The Consequences Of A Sunset’)

“Have you ever thought that the only reason why I refused to try that before was because I feared you might say so?” Thranduil asked sardonically, though the turmoil in his eyes remained unabated.

“You are talking in circles,” Gildor shrugged.

“Life seems to be moving in unending circles,” Thranduil said quietly as he met Gildor’s gaze wearily. 

The grey eyes of his friend held a deeply concealed emotion that Thranduil had rarely seen in them. It was not gratefulness or friendship or exhaustion. Thranduil stared in shock as he realized the truth; he had seen the emotion on Thalion’s face when the healer had been gazing at Oropher’s portrait. It was unrequited desperation.

Thranduil took a deep breath; he refused to let fate move his life in circles while he could command it otherwise. He was cursed, he was doomed; he smiled wryly; he should probably make the best out of that. He would not let Thalion’s fate fall on Gildor. 

Gildor inhaled sharply as he saw realization dawn on Thranduil’s face. He turned away hastily murmuring half-audible apologies as he started to walk back towards his chambers. 

“Wait,” Thranduil’s voice was warmer, a pitch lower than his usual cold tones.

Gildor halted in his tracks, and spoke quietly, “There is no more pretence between us, Ernil-nîn. But that does not mean that I wish to speak of that. Let this rest, I beg of you. You are a kind soul, whatever they say. And I shall not have your kindness or pity. I, too, have the proud blood of Finwë in my veins. Lust is one thing. But what I feel for you is different.”

Thranduil walked silently towards his friend and after glancing up and down the deserted corridor to make sure they were unwatched, he exhaled deeply. Tentatively, he rested his head against his friend’s shoulder and felt the immediate stiffening of Gildor’s body.

“I shall not ask you to lay down your pride, Gildor Inglorion,” Gildor shivered as the sensual tones of Thranduil’s melodious voice washed over him, “Instead, I shall lay down mine.”

“You cannot forget your past,” Gildor sighed even as Thranduil’s arms folded around his waist sinuously.

“I do not wish to,” Thranduil breathed in his friend’s ear, “But I vow to---”

“My Prince!” Thalion rushed in, his grey robes soaked in blood, “An attack on the northern reaches.”

“Laiqua?” Thranduil demanded as he stepped away from Gildor.

“He remains safe. He is with the warriors in the healing halls. More than half of them have passed on,” Thalion reported sadly.

“I come,” Thranduil said briskly, the usual mask of cold detachment falling over his handsome features.

Thalion nodded and left hastily. Thranduil turned to find Gildor frowning at him, as if still in hazy disbelief over the events of the afternoon.

“You will have to settle for the chambermaid’s company, my dear friend,” Thranduil said wryly, “I shall be required everywhere until my son’s folly is repaired.”

“But how---,” Gildor halted uncertainly, his eyes still wide in bafflement.

Thranduil removed a plain ring from his right-hand’s forefinger and placed it in Gildor’s unresisting hands. Gildor had seen it before. It had belonged to Thranduil’s mother. She had given it to Oropher before her departure west. He had given it to his son on his deathbed.

Thranduil closed Gildor’s hands over it and said quietly, “A promise. And Thranduil Oropherion always keeps his promises.”

 

“Ada,” Laiqua Thranduillion sighed as his father tapped his shoulder sharply. He rose from his seat near the bedside of one of his wounded warriors.

“You have lost the creature, I heard,” Thranduil said quietly.

“Yes,” Laiqua said uneasily, “It seemed an extremely coordinated attack. It was all I could do to save those who could be saved. Did you not sense it in the pulse of Greenwood?”

Thranduil took a deep breath and drew his son to the window, “I have bound myself to Gildor. My senses are drained by his recovery.”

“Ada,” Laiqua closed his mouth with his palm, even as his eyes widened in alarm, “You could have been pulled along with him into Mandos! Your bond to Naneth!”

“I was lucky. The Valar were kind enough to absolve me of my vows,” Thranduil said uncertainly and reached out to squeeze his son’s shoulder, “It is fine now, Laiqua. He will make a complete recovery.”

“I am glad to hear that,” Laiqua chose his words carefully, his father seemed worried about his reaction and yet defiant.

“Yes,” Thranduil asked as if prompting his son.

“Indeed,” Laiqua made his decision impulsively. He knew he would be jealous of Gildor, but he could not do it to his father. He took the plunge, “I wish you complete the cycle of binding. It is not wise to enter a one-sided bond. And I would never want you to be entrapped in such a relationship. You have been alone for an unfairly long time.”

“Laiqua,” Thranduil smiled weakly, then cleared his throat.

“Ada,” Laiqua laughed softly and embraced his father tightly, “I always want you to be happy. Yes, you know I will be occasionally jealous of Gildor. But then, I cannot say that I would behave any better even if Naneth had been there. To me, you are mine…My Father. And I always want the larger part of your heart. You have spoilt me to the core.”

“Leafling,” Thranduil said gratefully, “I love you the most, you know that. I know I have been rather distant since the matter of Gollum. I had one of my instincts that it was going to herald strife when Estel led that creature into our land. Never mind that, it is over.”

“I must tell Mithrandir of my dishonourable failure,” Laiqua muttered darkly, “Is he in Isengard?”

“You are not going anywhere near Saruman!” Thranduil growled, “I will send a missive to Erestor. He can try and find Mithrandir and pass on the news.”

“May I go to Imladris?” Laiqua asked hesitantly. 

He wanted to let Gildor and Thranduil have some time together. More than that, he did not want to see his father devoting the greater part of his attention to someone else than him. In his heart, Laiqua knew that Thranduil would never choose Gildor over him. But still...

“As you wish,” Thranduil said quietly, “The twins and Estel will be there at the turn of the season. It might do you some good to journey there.”

“I promise not to tell the tale of your second bonding to anyone until I cross the borders of Greenwood. Word of honour, Ada,” Laiqua teased his father, who blushed rather endearingly before grumbling and walking away.

 

Galadriel wondered why exactly she had paused in her walk with Elrohir. They were now watching Elladan and Celeborn spar. While she was duly appreciative of her grandson’s combat skills, her eyes were only for Celeborn. 

He was clad in sheer black leggings as was his custom while sparring. She could see the sinews that thrust out while he parried their grandson’s moves. Sweat ran down his spine lending his body a glow that pulled her lips into a contented smile. His blue eyes were amused and wary as they always were in a sparring match; a mix of watchfulness and arrogance. The silver hair that she adored so was braided back into a long plait that swung about as he moved. She was still staring at the snakelike braid when Elladan yelped and his sword clattered to the forest floor in defeat.

“You are no match for Grandfather yet,” Elrohir commented as he went over to help his twin regain his balance. 

“Yes,” Elladan gasped as he accepted his brother’s hand, “I must arrange for Glorfindel to spar with him.”

“I don’t think anyone can win against him,” Galadriel said confidently. She bit her tongue in shock as she realized that two pairs of grey eyes were staring amusedly at her. Celeborn’s blue eyes were wide in pleasant surprise.

Elrohir chuckled and glanced meaningfully at his brother. Elladan nodded and they left snickering together.

“Elladan has an odd reaction to defeat,” Celeborn commented after a long pause.

“I caused that reaction with my words, I fear,” Galadriel shrugged wryly as she turned to go. Her eyes were still refusing to give up staring at his torso. She stiffened as she took in the protrusion in the front of his leggings. Her eyes met his uncertainly.

“I wish that women too had signs of attraction by which one could gauge their interest,” Celeborn said half-seriously as he pulled his tunic on, effectively hiding his arousal from her, “Then half the problems in a marriage would disappear.”

Galadriel smiled, they had finally managed to reach equilibrium of sorts. The friendship that had started their love was once more blossoming. She found that she did not want to give up his company right now. They rarely had time to seek each other out and just speak of the day’s events as they once had done.

“You speak as if you have had a lot of experience with marriage,” she teased him, “I thought amongst us, only Thranduil went through it twice.”

“He was always reckless,” Celeborn said with a roll of his eyes, offering her his hand. His smile widened when she accepted it. He continued their conversation, “I mean, most of us are drained enough by one marriage!”

“Is that a personally verified statement?” she murmured, “I have tried marriage once, My Lord. And I have found it most intoxicating.”

“So did I,” Celeborn carefully trod the line between anger, sorrow and desire, “But I would not impose on her again. She has been a long suffering woman, I daresay.”

“I would say that she was a very foolish woman to let you go,” Galadriel laughed with the faintest trace of bitterness.

“She is not foolish,” Celeborn countered, “She has very noble motives in everything.”

“Would that mean that you don’t hate her?” Galadriel asked quietly.

“I think that would mean I am so insanely in love with her that I can never stop doing that,” Celeborn squeezed her hand, “If love is foolishness, then she and I remain the greatest fools on either side of the sea.”

 

“The hour is late, the wraiths hunt the lands, orcs plunder Rohan, Gondor wanes and Mithrandir rides to seek my counsel,” Saruman remarked as he saw his old friend ride into Isengard.

* * *

Elrond carefully invoked the power of Gil-Galad’s elven ring to hide the valley from strangers. The wraiths had crossed the mountains, he was sure of it. He had sent missives to Galadriel and Thranduil, hoping to receive an inkling of why exactly the wraiths had left their usual haunts. There was only one thing that could interest them so far out to the west; the Ring.

He stared at the cloudy night sky musing thoughtfully upon the situation. Erestor, he knew, was convinced that Mithrandir and Saruman had all along suspected the whereabouts of the Ring. Glorfindel did not believe that Mithrandir was deceiving the cause of the elves. Elrond chuckled to himself, it had always been so. Glorfindel would be wildly optimistic and Erestor blatantly pessimistic. Elrond had always advocated optimism. It had been one of his traits since childhood. Maybe he had imbibed it from his foster-father. Maglor’s unrelenting optimism had been the only reason that had kept his elder brother sane.

 

“Ada!,” his voice was excited and shrill, “’Tis Snowing!”

Maglor laughed, “Indeed it is, Elrond! Come, get into a cloak, and we can go make snowballs.”

“Really, Macalaurë,” Maedhros grumbled, looking up from an inventory sheet, “One would think that he has found a path to Valinor for all the enthusiasm you are showing now. It is just snow! I don’t want the two of you to return shivering, there is no coal.”

“A path to Valinor is next on his list of goals,” Maglor winked as he bundled up Elrond into a cloak and boots, “For now, we are going to learn the art of making snowballs. Will you join us?”

“No,” Maedhros frowned, “I had enough of the elements from my time on the Thangorodrim, thank you. You are not going, we have no firewood and no coal.”

Maglor nudged Elrond before facing his brother again.

“What?” Maedhros asked suspiciously.

“Please!” Elrond asked hopefully, clutching onto his foster-father’s hand tightly.

“That is a low ploy, brother-mine,” Maedhros said wryly, “Now leave me alone and indulge in your follies as you wish.”

Maglor smiled and led Elrond out. 

 

Maglor had patiently taught the child to make his first snowball. Elrond smiled wistfully as he stared at his fingers, he could still recall the tingle that had spread through him when he had touched snow for the first time. Of course, they had returned shivering and half-frozen, resulting in a worried tirade from Maedhros. He had ridden out in the snow to find firewood and had been in high dudgeon for days after that.

“It is late, My Lord,” Lindir’s voice was hesitant, “I doubt that they would return before dawn.”

“I think I might wait,” Elrond said quietly, “Erestor would rather reach here at midnight than spend another night on the ways.”

“Lord Glorfindel was of the same opinion,” Lindir observed, “He has ridden out to meet them at the borders of the river.”

 

Erestor stiffened as he felt the cold malice in the air. 

“Wraiths,” he cursed as he saw the riders on steeds on a parallel path. They were moving in the opposite direction. Erestor knew from experience the range of their senses. They would have spotted the elven contingent. But they had opted to ride on. So whatever their errand was, they were clearly pressed for time. What but the Ring could make them travel so far from their usual haunts? Erestor cursed again, he had to get the Halfling safe to Imladris. 

“My Lord!” a warrior exclaimed, “Wraiths, Estel is alone. We must ride to his aid!”

“Estel has sense enough to evade them,” Erestor said firmly, “Come, make haste, we must cross the Bruinen. Ride on, I am taking a shorter path. Keep together, do not pause,” he warned his escort before breaking away from the group and taking one of the less frequented paths. There was a risk of an orc-ambush, but he had to get the Halfing safe. For that he needed Glorfindel. The wraiths had reason enough never to forget the Golden Lord of Gondolin.

 

Mithrandir wondered how he could have been such a blind fool to not see through Saruman’s deceit. Trapped atop the bleak fortress of Isengard, he decided that he had time enough and more to curse himself for his stupidity. Erestor would be in serious trouble, Mithrandir sighed, for Saruman had preferred to just imprison his fellow-wizard than to crow over his capture. Mithrandir’s voluntary incarceration had bought them no time at all. 

He decided that he had had enough of Isengard to last him a lifetime and more. It was high time he tried an escape. He could probably be of more use in Imladris or Greenwood than in a prison.

 

Galadriel frowned as she read Erestor’s letter again.

“…I doubt that Haldir or any of the Sylvan nobles would openly accuse you of anything regarding the mysterious circumstances of Rúmil’s death. But if I were you, I would make sure that there arises no new argument between the Silver Tree and you. We cannot afford it now…”

She stiffened as a pair of hands embraced her from behind and a warm body pressed against her spine.

“My Lady,” a familiar voice greeted her mischievously, “I take it you were not expecting a lover.”

“No, indeed,” Galadriel smiled as she folded the letter and turned to face her guest, “Well-met, Laiqua Thranduillion.”

She took in his form curiously. He was clad in muted brown leather tunic and leggings, his hair bound back into a simple braid. Wise, green eyes held her gaze amusedly. His form was lithe and slender, he took after Oropher and Celeborn and had even traces of Elu Thingol in him. Once again, she reflected on the differences between Laiqua and Thranduil. 

“Ada has bonded again,” Laiqua informed her enthusiastically, “I know you know of that. But I cannot keep the news to myself any longer!”

“Celeborn and I know,” she smiled warmly, “I am glad that he is not alone anymore. He was never meant to be alone at all.”

Laiqua winked, “Half the subjects of our realm are in a state of shock. You know, if Gildor had been a woman, Ada could have tried to bring Noldor blood into our lines too.”

“I think you are better off without that,” Celeborn entered the room laughing, he returned Laiqua’s embrace and looked him over with the fond affection that he had always had for Oropher’s line.

“You resemble Oropher and Anoriel so,” he commented after a long scrutiny, “Something of Melian, Galadriel?”

“Yes,” she agreed, “Thranduil would not agree, I daresay. He has proclaimed that only those who scowl are worthy of Melian’s line. Both Elrond and Anoriel were very good.”

“Elrond has stopped scowling,” Celeborn said amusedly, “Elladan mentioned that.”

“Yes,” Galadriel shrugged, “He no longer has a reason to, Erestor sees to it that Elrond has his wishes met even before Elrond himself thinks of them. But enough of that, what are your plans, Laiqua?”

“Elladan and Elrohir are travelling with me to Imladris,” Laiqua said quietly, “I wish I could have stayed with you awhile. But I cannot. The creature Gollum has escaped, Ada has already written to you, I daresay.”

“He did,” Celeborn said soberly, “But I did not know that you were the messenger to Imladris. The passes are dangerous. I would not want you to travel until it is safer.”

“That is why I am travelling with the twins,” Laiqua smiled, “They are quite experienced and they know the passes like the palms of their own hands!”

 

Glorfindel cursed as he heard the distinctive hooves upon the gravel on the riverbanks. He dismounted and crossed his hands over his chest, his mien stern and disapproving.

“I am sorry,” Erestor called out as he saw his friend and mentor stand guard on the bridge over the river, “I had to.”

“Why would we put together an escort if you cannot travel with them?” Glorfindel snarled, “Elrond will murder you when he hears of this. Before that, I am going to seriously incapacitate you. First your tongue, I will have none of your damned reasoning and perambulated logic.”

“Glor,” Erestor jumped off his horse and embraced his friend, “I met Mithrandir and Estel. The wizard has traced the ring. It is with a Halfling. Wraiths are on their way. We saw them. Mithrandir has ridden to Isengard to buy us time to get the Ring and the Halfling safe. Estel will be waiting at Bree. He has agreed to bring the Halfling to Imladris. We must think of something.”

“Estel cannot fight off wraiths on his own,” Glorfindel exclaimed, “Did you send your escort to his aid?”

“I cannot have elves slain because of Isildur’s folly!” Erestor said angrily, “Glor, the wraiths fear you. Particularly their leader. And with good reason. You must bring the Halfling to Imladris. I will ride ahead and inform Elrond. There is a lot to be done. And something needs to be done about Mithrandir too.”

“Get going,” Glorfindel sighed, giving in to Erestor’s plea as he had always done, “At least you are safe. Erestor, you really tempt fate sometimes!”

 

Saruman jerked as he heard the uproar in the tower. An aide rushed in and said in a panicked tone, “He has escaped!”

Saruman examined his fingernails for a long while before saying contemplatively, “Let him go. What can he do? It will be amusing to watch them plot and scheme in vain. It is too late. Mithrandir should have had the sense to listen to my counsel. I could have helped them even at this late hour if he had wanted me to.”

 

“So Arwen and I are to be bound on the Solstice,” Elrohir finished his tale dreamily, his eyes sparkling with happiness.

“My father is sad that he cannot be there,” Laiqua said sincerely, “But the two of you are to come to Greenwood as soon as you can!”

“She has always wanted to see Greenwood, and she enthuses so whenever your father is mentioned,” Elrohir grinned, “The famed Thranduil Oropherion!”

“What of you, Elladan?” Laiqua asked amusedly, “Are you following your brother’s path anytime soon?”

“’Ro has taken the best,” Elladan shrugged mischievously, “I will have to wait until some maid springs up from Moria again.”

“I think orcs are going to come from Moria than elves or dwarves,” Elrohir commented, “Estel still has nightmares from his last trip to the borders of Moria.”

“Any romance blossoming?” Elladan asked Laiqua interestedly, “Now that your father is finally tamed, it is high time you indulged in this.”

“Ada is so over-protective that I am worried he might murder anyone who dares a lecherous look at me,” Laiqua snorted.

“Ada Erestor was like that,” Elrohir said reminiscently, “One of Glorfindel’s warriors had to bear the entire extent of his over-protectiveness just because the poor soul dared to comment on Elladan’s flanks!”

“Yes,” Elladan laughed, “I still think he might react the same way should I attempt a male lover.”

“It is not fair,” Laiqua bristled, “They have all experimented freely in their youth. They must have worn thin their guardians’ patience.”

“Ah!” Elladan laughed, “Maglor seemed to think that spoiling Ada Elrond and Elros rotten was his goal in life. Glorfindel and Círdan were too fond of Ada Erestor. And your father,” he rolled his eyes, “Oropher would be concerned only when Thranduil failed to bring a lover to bed.”

 

Elrond smiled as he saw the black stallion sweep into the courtyard. He waited impatiently as the rider dismounted and then rubbed his stallion’s ears affectionately before leading it over to the stables. 

A few moments later, Elrond could inhale the familiar scent of his friend. 

“How do you know me so well?” Erestor’s voice was mildly curious as Elrond turned and smiled warmly. 

“Observation of centuries, I should say,” Elrond remarked, “What troubles you?”

“Many things,” Erestor sighed as he walked gratefully into Elrond’s embrace and leant his head against his companion’s shoulder, “There is no time. I wish I could spare you the news, but I cannot.”

An hour later, Elrond decided that getting drunk had its merits. Erestor’s news had shocked him. That was not unusual. But he was literally torn by the pace at which things had progressed. He stared at the dawn sky, it seemed unnaturally peaceful in the valley. He found it hard to believe that the wraiths had crossed into serene Eriador. A shiver ran down his spine as he thought of the innocent Halflings who would wake to see wraiths at their doorstep. Saruman’s deceit was another grave matter. The wizard had deep knowledge of the elven kingdoms and Elrond knew that would well prove their downfall in the days to come.

And there was the matter of Thranduil. Elrond closed his eyes wearily, while he was glad that Gildor was alive, the measures to which Thranduil had gone to save him were reckless. Elrond had done the same for Erestor, but he had truly loved his friend. Thranduil, Elrond knew, had never buried his love for Anoriel. It could well prove fatal for Gildor should he realize that Thranduil had acted merely on impulse and friendship.

“Thranduil might try sincerely,” Erestor offered half-heartedly, “Gildor’s regard for him is no secret.”

“I hope he does,” Elrond said wearily, “I had thought that Gildor at least had stayed safe from the curse. Everyone of the House of Finwë who had dared to love has been doomed.”

 

“I hope that he does not regret it,” Gildor said seriously as he watched Thranduil speak with his counsellors. 

After their last conversation, he had not had the opportunity to speak to the King again. Laiqua’s departure, the funerals of the warriors, the endless meetings with the war councils, the inspections of the borders and so many other matters of state had kept Thranduil busy. But Gildor knew that his friend’s eyes fell upon him whenever they passed each other in the corridors. Once, their eyes had met. Thranduil had averted his gaze, seeming nervous, vulnerable and guilty.

“He is still in love with Anoriel,” Thalion said thoughtfully, as he examined Gildor’s wounds, “It will change. He is determined.”

“Yes,” Gildor sighed, “But I do not think I can stand to lose his friendship over something like this. I will never be comfortable asking him for more than he can give me.”

“I suggest you speak with Erestor soon,” Thalion said gravely, “He might be able to talk to Thranduil. Or perhaps, Lady Galadriel. She is very good in sorting out others’ troubles though she cannot act sensibly in the matter of her own love.”

 

Thranduil grumbled to himself as he sat in the throne room, glancing over the latest reports from his spies near the Dol Gulur fortress. He could not will himself to concentrate on the reports, his thoughts swirled around his own tangled life. He looked up at Oropher’s portrait.

How many times had Thranduil tried to make Oropher take a lover again?

“I have loved only once, ion-nîn. And the memories of that love shall last me forever,” Oropher’s voice was sincere and firm.*

 

(*Refer The Song Of Sunset – chapter 10 : ‘The Fall Of Eregion’)

That had been his father’s response everytime the topic had sprung up. Thranduil wondered how Thalion had managed to hide his pain and love from all of them over so many years. Each time Oropher proclaimed his love for Thranduil’s mother, it must have been a deathblow to Thalion’s heart. Something, Thranduil decided dully, he would never allow happen to Gildor.

He gazed at Anoriel’s portrait, her blue eyes seemed to twinkle at him. Of course, a mere oil-painting could do no justice to the softness and lustre of her flaxen hair or the rosiness of her soft lips or the warmth of her smile. But he remembered everything about her, from her fresh scent to every ticklish spot on her body. 

He cursed, he had loved her as he would never love anyone again. He still loved her. Sharing his body with Gildor then had been to save his friend from Mandos. But what would he do now?

Gildor had been understanding enough, he had offered Thranduil a way out. Thranduil knew that Gildor would pretend to cover his true feelings with lust should the King ever approach him for comfortseeking. That was the crux of his dilemma, Thranduil kneaded his eyes tiredly. He desired Gildor, he wanted Gildor, he loved Gildor as a friend. But could he be a coward and act as if he knew nothing of Gildor’s heart?

“I have heard many things of you, Prince Thranduil,” her voice was low and seductive, “But never that you are a coward. They say that Thranduil Oropherion takes what he wants, damn the consequences.”*

(*Refer The Song Of Sunset – chapter 31 : A Betrothal In Greenwood 2’)

 

“My Lord,” a familiar voice asked him, “Is it not time to retire?”

“Thalion,” Thranduil almost whined in confusion, “What am I to do?”

“I take it you refer to the situation with Gildor,” Thalion chuckled wryly as he entered the chamber and walked over to the throne. He sat down on the steps and gazed at Oropher’s portrait thoughtfully, “Your father would not have done it.”

“I am not my father,” Thranduil remarked, “However much I try to be. I could not just let him die when there was yet a chance of saving him. If I had known then…”

“If you had known of Gildor’s love for you then, would you have acted any differently, young lord?” Thalion probed cautiously.

Thranduil silently examined the creases on his robes before muttering, “No, Thalion. I would have done the same. It is no fault of his that things are as they are.”

“What do you want to do now?” Thalion asked quietly, “There are no more deceptions. Both of you know the truth.”

“If I give myself to him as a lover or a bonded-mate,” Thranduil said pain-stricken, “He would know each time I think of Anoriel. And I would be torn between them, I love her more. I will never love him to the same extent. I would feel guilty that I am not loyal to her, and I would feel just as guilty that I am not loyal to him. I wonder how Erestor coped. He told me once that he loved Gil-Galad as much as it was possible for him to do so. And that he loves Gil-Galad even now though he loves Elrond more. But he was confident that he would choose Elrond over Gil-Galad whatever the consequences are.”

“They say that those of the house of Finwë love only once”*, Thalion murmured, “Gildor will never stop loving you even if you cannot honour him the same way.”

(* Refer The Song Of Sunset The 3rd Age – Chapter 44 : ‘The Winds Of Change 2’)

“What do you want me to do, Thalion?” Thranduil asked wearily, “I cannot treat him so callously.”

“You should try, young lord. For both your sakes,” Thalion said firmly, “He will understand your fears and doubts more than you think. He will be grateful to you if you just tell him the truth; that you would choose her if you were given a choice.”

 

“Mithrandir,” Elrond said relieved as he spotted the wizened old figure carried by the eagles into Imladris, “He has escaped.”

“I hope he was not set free,” Erestor said cautiously.

“Will you say that the sun rose just to burn you alive? You are very pessimistic, of late,” Elrond said teasingly.

“Saruman had no use for me,” Mithrandir huffed in mock disgust as he came to join them, “So I thought I might employ my considerable talents somewhere else where they would be well-appreciated.”

“Then I suggest that you leave Imladris,” Erestor remarked sardonically, “I have had enough of wizards who deceive me and certainly I have had enough of wizards who refuse to see that they are being betrayed.”

“It was a ruse,” Mithradnir winked good-naturedly, “I wanted to know if any elf was capable of discerning the truth. Of course, I would have stepped in, had matters turned worse.”

Erestor spared him a withering glance before nodding to Elrond and walking back to his study.

“What news of Gildor?” Mithrandir asked soberly.

“He recovers well,” Elrond sighed, “And for the rest, it is between Thranduil and him. Come, Mithrandir, you must be weary. I am waiting for Glorfindel to return.”

“Why do you never ride out?” Mithrandir asked curiously, “One would think that you had cause enough to take revenge against them.”

“My dear friend,” Elrond smiled, “Bloodlust and slaughter cannot cure sorrow and loss. It is a lesson I had learnt early on in life. I would rather be a healer than a warrior.” 

 

He entered the chamber quietly and slid the door shut behind him. The sole occupant of the room lay on his side, facing the window, his eyes thoughtful and distant.

“Thranduil,” Gildor spoke slightly surprised as he turned to see the nocturnal visitor, clad in a loose nightrobe, “What is it?” he rose to a sitting position.

“There are bedbugs in my bed,” Thranduil offered lamely as he came to stand before his friend.

Gildor did not reply, instead moving over to make space for the King. Thranduil exhaled deeply before sliding in and pulling the sheets over them.

“A good night to you,” Gildor said quietly.

Thranduil frowned, then turned to face Gildor and placed his hand boldly on Gildor’s shoulder. 

“I might send you back to battle bedbugs,” Gildor said half-seriously.

Thranduil smiled and cuddled up cosily to his friend. His smile widened as a soft, chaste kiss was placed onto his forehead. He would do the best he could.

* * *

“So what do you say?” Mithrandir asked good-naturedly, “I bet this pouch of pipeweed on Elrond. He is in good form today.”

“Lord Erestor is always in good form,” Arwen smirked as she watched the two lords circle each other warily with their swords held at the ready. She absently pulled the damp grass on which she was seated before remarking, “I will give you the key to the library, I know you are creeping in there at nights.”

“That is a wonderful bargain,” Mithrandir laughed, “Do win, Elrond!”

“Ask for something else from the mangy wizard, Arwen,” Erestor advised as he parried Elrond’s forceful thrust, “The pouch is too less.”

“Talk again, my dear friend,” Elrond commented as he neatly brought down his sword in a sweeping arc that broke through Erestor’s defences forcing him to retreat.

“Press your advantage, Elrond,” Mithrandir supported lustily.

“I mean to, Mithrandir, I certainly mean to,” Elrond murmured as he enjoyed the rare spectacle of watching Erestor fumble uncharacteristically fumble to gain the upper hand. 

Elrond ran his eyes over the slightly flushed features of his friend. They were clad in simple tunics and leggings, that showed the clean lines of Erestor’s lithe frame. Elrond mused that he rarely saw Erestor so carefree anymore. He wistfully thought back to the long, lazy days of the founding of Imladris.

“Don’t stare, Elrond,” Mithrandir muttered, “We have time later.”

Elrond rolled his eyes at the wizard before swerving to meet Erestor’s arcing sword. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Arwen flinching subtly. He suppressed a sigh. She had refused to learn swordsmanship despite his stern insistence. After what had befallen Galadriel, Anoriel and Celebrían, he was reluctant to see anyone untrained. 

“Elbereth,” Erestor’s hissed incantation was followed by the sharp sound of tearing cloth as Elrond failed to move away in time from a thrust. He looked down to see his tunic sliced through though Erestor had skilfully swerved at the last instant to avoid flesh.

“It is all right,” Elrond called to Arwen who had risen worriedly, “I mean to let Mithrandir save his pouch!”

“We shall see,” Erestor smiled as he moved in again, his flawless arc gracefully bearing down upon Elrond, who parried it just as easily. 

Their bodies brushed as their swords met, Erestor’s eyes widened in shock as he felt a hard warmth against his thigh. Elrond chuckled and neatly took advantage of the momentary lapse, disarming Erestor flippantly.

“The keys, Arwen,” Mithrandir offered a mock bow to the lady, who sighed. 

He turned to watch a concerned Elrond retrieve the fallen sword and present it to an amused, yet, baffled Erestor. The wizard shook his head, he would never understand the depth of their bond. 

As he escorted Arwen out of the clearing, he heard Erestor’s voice on the wind, “What spoils does the winner claim?”

“Nothing that has not been claimed before,” Elrond’s answer was warm and filled with pure happiness, “Your sword slipped, let us sheath it somewhere safer, tighter.”

Mithrandir smiled despite himself.

“What is that?” Arwen asked quietly as a large shadow blotted out the sun temporarily before gliding away like a cloud.

“Wraiths,” Mithrandir whispered, “The shadow has fallen upon us, we have to fight it or succumb, Undómiel.”

 

“I would visit Thranduil,” Galadriel said wistfully as she completed the inventories and the correspondence of the realm.

“It is not safe,” Celeborn said with a shrug as he looked up from the patrol scheme he had been working on, “Laiqua said the paths are beset.”

“I could take a larger escort and have the border guards meet me,” Galadriel mused, her eyes thoughtful as she glanced out of the window to the east.

“I know what you are about,” he sighed and set his quill down, his sapphire eyes met her clear blue eyes, “You wish that I would tell you not to go. That I do not want you to go,” her eyes widened.

“I do not know if I have honour enough to say that I swear by it I was not baiting you to admit your reluctance to let me leave,” she smiled faintly, “Indeed, Celeborn, someone as wise as you are would have known centuries before that my concern for Thranduil goes deeper than any petty matters as this.”

“Forgive me,” his lips twisted in a mockery of a smile, “I seem to spend all my life apologizing to you. Once again, I made the mistake of hoping that you valued my feelings in the least.”

“If I had not valued your feelings,” she rose to her feet and moved to the window, “I would have spared many their feelings.”

The silence that fell between them weighed of all things that they had left unspoken and unbreached. He took a deep breath and leant back in his chair, watching her proud profile against the sunlight that poured into the room.

As always, she gathered her courage to cross the unexplored distance. She turned to meet his worried gaze resolutely.

“The Ring comes to Imladris,” she said quietly.

Celeborn nodded, he had felt it himself, in the air, in the water, in the soil. The malice was drawing nearer to the last great city of the Noldor left in Middle Earth.

“Estel is stronger in mind than Isildur had been,” he said reassuringly, falling back easily into their old practice of discussing court matters.

“Perhaps he is stronger in mind,” Galadriel shrugged, “But Isildur had a stronger army…and stronger alliances. Which is something his scion lacks.”

“It is the best hope we have,” Celeborn shrugged, wondering why she had switched topics so quickly. Perhaps she did not wish to tear the fragile peace they had now.

“What is it that you believe in, Celeborn?” she asked quietly, “What gives you hope?”

“I believe,” Celeborn halted, “In many things, Galadriel. And you know well what they are. But it is time to say it aloud.”

She frowned, but he shook his head and she nodded assent for him to continue.

“I have been many things to many people, Galadriel,” he rose to his feet silently, “A prince, a warrior, a scholar, a loremaster, a strategist, a counsellor, a ruler, a cousin, a shield-brother, a father….I have lived a long life and I have fought many battles and seen many things that few have even dreamt of. They call me Wise.”

“And they speak the truth,” Galadriel cut in smoothly.

“If age brings wisdom, then they might be right. But I have a different opinion,” he paused and crossed the distance between them, so that they faced each other.

“And why would you have a different opinion?” she asked quietly, her eyes seeking for answers.

“Because I have finally found the courage to realize the truth of my life. That my life starts and ends with you, that you are the dawn and the dusk of my existence,” he murmured.

“You can live without me,” she said softly, her eyes shadowed by untold regrets and pain.

“I can, but that life is not worth living,” he reached out to touch her high cheekbone, but then stopped, his fingers suspended midway in the air, “Is it too late for us to salvage what is left to us?”

“It would be never too late,” she smiled faintly, her eyes sparking with hope for the first time in centuries, “We cannot wipe out the past, but we can build it anew.”

“We always seem to be building it anew,” he whispered as he let his hand fall.

“Once the Ring is destroyed, we shall resolve everything,” she promised, brushing her fingers over his hand reassuringly, “We shall do it together.”

 

Thranduil Oropherion watched the smoke rising from Dol Guldur, a set expression on his handsome features.

“We cannot afford to secure the borders on all sides,” Thalion murmured as he brought his mare alongside Thranduil’s mount, “Dol Guldur is far more powerful than the three elven Rings put together.”

“I have always held more trust in the hearts of the elves than in the rings crafted by them,” Thranduil smiled coldly as his warriors brought a captured human to him, “Thalion, do you know what this person has achieved?”

Thalion stared at the shivering man before them. The captive’s eyes were bloodshot and the body was riddled with bruises and petty wounds. The healer felt an instinctive urge to treat the man. 

“He was responsible for betraying twelve of our allies, the dwarves. He was their guide through the forest path and he led them to Dol Guldur,” Thalion felt dread rising in him as Thranduil’s words became icier, “Now what punishment shall a betrayer meet?”

“Ernil-nîn,” Thalion whispered as Thranduil dismounted and unsheathed his sword, “We are no cold blooded killers.”

“Think you so?” Thranduil turned to face his mentor, “I have proved to myself that I can kill in cold blood. 

 

“Here we are!” Elladan exclaimed enthusiastically as they rode into the courtyard of Imladris.

“My Lords!” Lindir came down the stairs with a warm smile of welcome, “We had not expected you until tomorrow.”

“Laiqua here raced us all the way down the paths,” Elrohir muttered as he leapt off his mare and stretched to work out the kinks in his joints, “Where is everyone?”

“At the river,” Lindir laughed as Elladan unconsciously followed his twin’s actions, “Well met, Prince Thranduillion!”

“Lindir,” Elladan introduced amiably, “He rarely steps out of the house, never stirred out of Imladris. But he is your father’s admirer.”

“Who isn’t?” Elrohir chuckled as he hooked an arm through Laiqua’s, “Lindir, would you be as kind as to lead us to them?”

“With pleasure,” Lindir said agreeably, as he fell into step alongside the merry trio.

They walked to the Bruinen, falling into a pleasantly light conversation. The twins had never broached grave matters before Lindir as he worried too much. And Laiqua knew them well enough to follow their subtle lead.

“It is you!” Arwen called out happily as she spotted them from her seat on a boulder next to the river, she rose to her feet, “You are back early!”

“You have no greetings for me, Lady Undómiel?” Laiqua snorted in mock anger as he stood back to let Elladan embrace her. He watched with rising amusement as Elrohir fidgeted clearly waiting to greet her in a more intimate manner.

She laughed and then moved to embrace the prince saying quietly, “It has been a very long time, Laiqua. I am glad to see you.”

“Ah! Here they are,” Elladan crowed as he saw Elrond and Erestor walking along the river side, clad in simple tunics and leggings.

Laiqua smiled as he watched them, marvelling at their perfect synchronization, their steps falling in line together as they strode forward immersed in their conversation.

“They are always like that,” Arwen murmured as she noticed Laiqua’s gaze, “They seem to know each other almost as well as they know themselves.”

“Indeed,” Elladan smiled, “Smoother than the relationship our grandparents share, I feel.”

 

“I am worried,” Thalion confided as he walked into Gildor’s rooms, “He grows crueller in judgement with each passing day that I fear for him.”

“He has always been a stern ruler,” Gildor said half-convinced.

“Stern, firm and determined, but never a ruthless ruler,” Thalion commented as he took in the largescale battle plans that Gildor had been drawing, “I felt sick to the stomach as I watched him cut off the limbs, tongue and ears of the traitor before letting him loose in the southern forests. It would have been more compassionate to kill him where he stood.”

“These are hard times, and we need hard measures,” Gildor pointed to the circle on the map that showed Mordor, “The shadow has fallen upon us, Thalion. We cannot afford to be compassionate to anyone anymore.”

“I fear for his soul,” Thalion said urgently, “Cold-blooded killing.”

“I will speak to him, Thalion, but I cannot assure you that he will change at all,” Gildor pointed out, “You know how he is.”

 

“Estel,” Elrond greeted him as he entered the study, “The Halflings recover as we speak. What are your plans?”

“Am I supposed to have one?” Estel sighed as he closed the door and sank down into a chaor across Elrond, “My Lord Elrond, I have little idea of what to do and of how to do it.”

“It is your forefather’s mistake that you must try to undo,” Elrond remarked.

“Perhaps I should not remind you that Isildur was related to you, that you had led him to Mt.Doom that night, that the entire doom was wrought because of your cousin, who had to learn the arts of the Rings from Sauron,” Estel hissed.

“Laiqua Thranduillion is here. A contingent of dwarves from Erebor too have come. Círdan has sent aides. We could apprise them all and then decide on what is to be done. Mithrandir might help us, of course,” Elrond said placatingly, seeing the lost, wild expression on Estel’s features.

“What does Lord Erestor suggest?” Estel asked bitterly, “He will have a plan worked out as he is the chief counsellor after all!”

“I do advise you to bury the long standing hatchet you have had with him,” Elrond raised a stern eyebrow.

“He left me to battle nine wraiths on my own!” Estel rose to his feet, his eyes blazing with anger, “And I had to get the naïve Halflings to safety, with one of them wounded mortally!”

“He had to ride back to warn Glorfindel and send him to your aid. If Erestor had not come then, you would all have perished and the wraiths would have got the Ring!” Elrond said heatedly, his reined-in temper threatening to burst forth.

“Anything concerning Erestor Maglorion brings you to unreasonable arguments!” Estel hissed accusingly, “What do you see in him that makes him so precious?”

“Do not meddle in what you have no right to,” Elrond said furiously, “I hold my twin in the deepest regard, and for his sake, I shall continue the alliance with your line, Estel. Else I would have thrown all of Isildur’s blood into the wilds where they belong!”

“I know that well,” Estel smirked, “And thank you for the charity, Lord Half-Elven. But I do have a request, my men and I are going to sacrifice ourselves for your cause. As Elendil did. So I want payback.”

Elrond raised an eyebrow before saying calmly, “Such things can wait until all of us are assembled. The shadow lengthens from the east.” 

Estel nodded sharply and left the room leaving Elrond to wonder what he might demand. He was thrown back to Isildur’s demands during the war of the last alliance. Life moved in circles.

 

“Thought you might never come,” Elrohir complained as Arwen let herself in and closed the door behind her.

“Lord Erestor had asked me to receive the guests, ‘Ro,” Arwen explained, “He was busy with the dwarves; Mithrandir, Elladan and Laiqua are gone scouting. Glorfindel is with the Rangers and Lord Elrond is in his study. So I had to be there.”

“Hmm…,” Elrohir groped blindly for words that refused to come, “Grandmother said she would stand by us, if we chose to bond. And Grandfather too has no objections.”

Arwen tilted her head in amusement as he plopped down on the bed, looking lost. He grimaced and said quietly, “Will you not say something?”

“We have said all that we need to,” Arwen remarked, “Now we need to do what is left.”

He took in her beautiful features. Arwen Undómiel was not as ethereal as Galadriel or Celebrían. In her was human blood, the blood of Beren One-handed. In her was the blood of Melian, the Maia. In her was the blood of the house of Fëanor, the spirit of fire. The mixture of bloodlines defined her features, making her truly the Evenstar of the elves.

She smiled, forcing down her nervousness. She realized that she would have to take the first step. For a moment, she wondered if this was how Galadriel felt each time she had to take a crucial decision. She thanked her fates that she was not Galadriel, the burden of making choices. But now, she shivered, she had to make the decision for both of them. Was she ready? 

“Ada, I have no wish to be separated from you,” Arwen cried as the dwarves came to fetch her away.

“I have no choice, Arwen,” Celebrimbor had sighed, “If I had, I would never have done this. Remember that and make the best of your choices. For it is not always that you are given a choice.” 

She had a choice, and she would choose. Firmly, she walked to the bed and knelt before Elrohir, who still looked insecure and afraid. She took his hands in hers and rested her head on his lap. Elrohir’s breathing hitched as the familiar scent of her assailed his senses. He bowed over to press his trembling lips on the nape of her neck, where the long, raven-black hair had parted. Arwen felt his trembling cease, the first step was taken. He cupped her face and pulled her up. Pressing her to him, he lay back on the bed, his lips sought hers and his limbs entwined her.

“Dreams do come true,” he whispered reverently, his fingers dug into her shoulders as he explored the sweetness of her mouth.

 

He walked to Thranduil’s chambers, unsure of his reception. In the past few days, during his recovery, the King had always come to his room. They would talk of court matters and strategies. Depending on his mood, Thranduil stayed the night or sometimes left abruptly with a curt ‘Goodnight’. But Thranduil had not spoken with him the whole of the last week. He was worried. And distraught. He loved Thranduil too much to accept this isolation with equanimity. He had honoured Thranduil’s reticence for one week, knowing well his friend’s temper. But he was driven nearly insane by Thranduil’s pretence that he did not exist.

He knocked softly and then entered. Immediately, he wished he had not come. For the King was kneeling before the large portrait of Anoriel in the chamber, his forehead pressed against the bottom of the thick, wooden frame. He seemed to be lost in thought, not even noticing the creak of the door when Gildor had pushed it open. 

Gildor was about to slide the door shut gently and leave when Thranduil said stridently, “Enter, My Lord, you should not have come. But now, you are here.”

“Ernil-nîn,” Gildor said reassuringly as he entered, “I did not mean to disturb you.”

“How unlucky the House of Finwë is in the matters of the heart?” Thranduil said bitterly as he rose to his feet and faced Gildor, “Elrond, Erestor, Gil-Galad, Galadriel, Celebrimbor, Menelwen and so many others. And now, you!” Thranduil spat, “You are condemned to love a fool who is torn between loyalty to his friend and fidelity to his dead wife who chose Mandos over him for eternity. I do so pity you, Gildor Inglorion!” 

Gildor flinched at the harsh words, Thranduil closed his eyes wearily saying, “I apologize, I should not have said that.”

“Ernil-nîn,” Gildor said quietly, “I want your friendship above everything else. If there is one thing that the House of Finwë has cherished more than love, it is friendship. For we have been blessed in our friends as we have been cursed in our love.”

“No, Gildor,” Thranduil smiled wanly, Gildor felt a pang of misery in his heart as he saw the deep bitterness and despair in Thranduil’s once mirth-filled eyes.

Thranduil’s smile withered as he noticed the concern in his friend’s features and he said quietly, “I am merely overwrought by all that has happened, my friend. I will be all right soon. Thalion and you should not worry so for me.”

Gildor nodded and then continued bravely, “Do I still have your friendship? It was never my intention to tear you between what you had and what I want.”

“I know,” Thranduil said softly, “But all the same, Gildor, never give up in love,” his eyes darkened into deep emerald, “Never give up. Help me bury my memories, help me be at peace, teach me what it is to love, all over again,” he took a deep breath, “I cannot promise you that I can be what you want, but I promise to never throw away our friendship,” he extended his hand, the elven gesture for warrior’s comfort.

“Thranduil, Ernil-nîn,” Gildor said hesitantly, “We are not ready to take that step.”

“Were you ready when we did that during the happy days in Lindon?” Thranduil shook his head, “Or was your blood hotter then? Come, claim me, Gildor.”

“What?” Gildor spluttered in disbelief, “Ernil-nîn?”

“I know what has happened in the den of Saruman,” Thranduil said gravely, his eyes sparkling with sincerity, “I will never claim you while the dark memories still haunt you so. Believe me, my friend, I know the dread of nightmares.”

“You cannot just give yourself in a manner that causes you no ease, pleasure and comfort,” Gildor said shocked, “I will not do it. I love you too much to indulge myself so in an activity that gives you no happiness. We do not need to manifest our feelings in a physical manner to prove them.”

“Then we reach an impasse, Gildor,” Thranduil shrugged, “But the offer is always there. Come to me when you wish. For now, I need to see to the patrols.”

 

He walked through the gardens of Imladris, wondering at the marvels of the city. His city was immense, steeped in history and soaked in blood, and victorious glory. But he knew that this city of the elves far surpassed his homeland. Here was wisdom, strength and hard-fought-for peace; here lived a race who had endured wars, destruction and sorrow unnumbered and yet prevailed. Here, he felt reverently, time stood still.

“Might I help you?” a musical voice enquired politely.

He looked up to see a slender, tall figure, clad in black, silken robes that floated gently in the breeze. A pair of wise, yet compassionate deep, black eyes measured him quietly. He was struck by the myriad of emotions that fleetingly passed through the eyes before leaving behind a smooth calm. He took in the sharp, aristocratic features and the elegantly regal posture of the elf before him. This elf was not a commoner. 

Bowing, he brought forth his impeccable court manners, “Boromir of Gondor, at your service, My Lord.”

“Lord Boromir,” the voice had a shade of amusement now, “I am honoured to meet the famed warrior of Gondor. I am Erestor Maglorion. But do dispense with your formal fashions in Imladris, here we do not differentiate between lord and vassal.”

Boromir wondered why they had no caste system. Perhaps, he mused silently, they were all too old to clearly differentiate between rank and scale. 

“May I guide you to a bridge from where we can see the valley and the waterfalls?” Erestor asked with a warm smile, “They are said to be the wonders of Imladris.”

“Who made Imladris?” Boromir asked curiously, “I am afraid that my knowledge of your lore is poor. It is my brother who knows the history of the races of Middle-Earth well.”

“Imladris,” Erestor paused and scrutinised Boromir, “The name was given by Lord Gil-Galad, our King. Imladris is an achievement of the craftsmen of Eregion which fell to Sauron centuries ago.”

“The lord of Imladris is rumoured to be wise and generous,” Boromir remarked as they climbed the path, “I look forward to meeting him. I saw his daughter at the reception today, a jewel truly! No mortal maiden can surpass her beauty, not even the White Lady of Rohan!”

“Lady Éowyn of Rohan certainly deserves the reputation, from what I have heard of her beauty. Arwen would be honoured that you consider her thus,” Erestor smiled and waved his hand in an elegant arc, Boromir gasped as he took in the pristine beauty of the waterfalls cascading merrily before them, “This, my Lord Boromir, is Imladris.”

“I cannot describe it in any word I know,” Boromir said sincerely, “And I fear that even the mightiest of Gondorian poets would never do this beauty enough justice.”

“Well-met, Lord Erestor!” a clear, melodious voice exclaimed, Boromir watched in half-awe and half-fear as a lithe form nimbly negotiated the tricky bridges to come towards them.

“Ernil-neth,” Erestor smiled as he stood back, “I am pleased to introduce you to Lord Boromir, Captain of Gondor and son of the Steward, Lord Denethor. Lord Boromir, this is Prince Laiqualassë Thranduillion, Crown-Prince of Greenwood the Great.”

Boromir bowed to the golden haired prince, who wore neither circlet nor royal raiment. He took in the compassionate, yet, determined green eyes and the austere features. The prince was handsome yet not an overwhelming presence. Boromir had heard of Thranduil Oropherion, as had everyone in Gondor and Rohan and even in the Far Eastern lands. The king was a legend. Boromir tried to find traces of the legend in the prince.

“You are comparing me to the tales told about my father,” the prince laughed, “Lord Boromir, I am not he, and I certainly assure you that he is what they make him out to be in the tales.”

Erestor laughed and said apologetically, “I must return now, I fear. Laiqua, could you accompany Lord Boromir?”

“Ever here at your side to be used,” Laiqua winked at Erestor, “Go on, Elrond and Estel were having a ‘discussion’ when I saw them a while ago.”

Erestor grimaced before leaving silently down the path. Boromir watched his robes trail behind him before bringing his eyes to Laiqua, who was humming softly under his breath.

“This is my first journey across the mountains of the divide,” Boromir remarked, to bring back their conversation.

“It is the same for me,” Laiqua laughed, “My father rarely allows me to travel.”

“Why then are you here now? Does your father not need you in his lands?” Boromir asked curiously, “My father cannot spare either my brother or me…”

“My father is quite capable of waging a lonely war against the darkness for eternity if he has to,” Laiqua’s tone was bitter, “But, Lord Boromir, let me not sully your first visit to the lands of the west with sober tales,” his expression cleared, “I will tell you the tale of the founding of Imladris, of the long, grim retreat of Lord Elrond Peredhel and Lord Erestor Maglorion, of how they led an orphaned people to a future unknown, of how they refused to let hope die…of how Imladris became the beacon of their hope, determination, courage and wisdom.”

“There is something more that is tangible in the air,” Boromir remarked, “I have not the foresight of my father or the profound wisdom of my brother. But I am a man of the world, I have seen malice and destruction. Here I sense something more, like the warmth of the fireplace after a heavy day’s ride.”

“Yes,” Laiqua smiled thoughtfully, “Many have felt that, many call Imladris the true home of the elves left in Middle-Earth. Whatever your race be, Imladris is home.”

“Why is it so?” Boromir wondered, feeling relaxed and calm for the first time in many years, he smiled as the birdsong floated in the air, “Why does it feel like home?”

“Imladris, they say, is a beacon of love,” Laiqua murmured as the water cascaded like jewels, glittering in the soft colours of the sunset, “Of a love that transcended all.”

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

“My dear Thalion,” Thranduil said dismissively, “I need none of your foul draughts or potions. Go put your skills to better use at the healing chambers. Off with you. I need to get some tasks done.”

Thalion glowered at the King before striding out of the chamber in high temper. Thranduil sighed and leant back in his seat. His head throbbed painfully and his whole body was rebelling against him. Probably, he mused angrily, orcs had crept into his woods again and the pulse of Greenwood was calling out to its protector for aid. Aid which he had no means to provide, he thought dully. His resources were stretched. 

“After Laiqua returns,” he promised himself, “He can take on the borders of the river while I manage the rest. That would be one concern less.”

At least, he thought reasonably, Gildor was leading out warriors and forcing the enemy out of their borders. It was not a lasting solution, but it was the best one they had given their situation now.

The King rose to his feet and stretched wearily, he had gone without sleep and rest for days together. The concerns of his tottering realm scared him, only his will held the lands safe. And he feared that his will alone would not be enough in the near future. 

Sighing, he brought his right hand to his eye-level. The signet ring of the royal family of the Sindar shone dully at him. Duty, he thought absently, duty was the harshest mistress that bound him to these lands.

 

“Elrond,” Glorfindel hissed angrily, “Not only is that plan foolhardy, it is fraught with peril and uncertainty, I will not countenance this folly.”

“Erestor says it is the only chance we have,” Elrond shrugged wearily, “And you know he rarely counsels folly.”

“I do not see how it has the remotest chance of success,” Glorfindel grumbled, “There will be an uproar, when it comes to the council.”

“Erestor will see to it that they are persuaded enough,” Elrond said placatingly, “He is with Mithrandir now.”

“A representative of each race, man, elf, dwarf, Istar and hobbit?” Glorfindel snorted as he walked over to the window and glared at the waterfalls, “I have never heard such an impossible idea. All the Dorwinion he has imbibed has finally gotten to his brains, as I have long suspected would happen.”

“I am worried about Estel,” Elrond said pensively as he joined his friend by the window, “He has mentioned the returns we owe him for leading our cause. Erestor said that he would negotiate with Estel, but I am worried.”

“Do you think that you can persuade Gilraen to speak to her son regarding this?” Glorfindel said quietly, “She is a sensible woman. She still remembers Imladris with gratitude. She has reasons to.”

“Not many would have done what we did for her,” Elrond nodded thoughtfully, “But if I know anything of Isildur’s line, I fear that approach would not work. Isildur listened not to his father. And Estel will not heed his mother.”

“What counsels Galadriel?” Glorfindel asked gravely, “It would be folly to move without her aid and counsel. She is a strong soul and can make decisions without dithering.”

“That she is,” Elrond smiled wryly, meeting his friend’s clouded blue eyes, “I do however have a lack of appreciation for her devious methods. She would embark on some disastrously noble scheme to save us all. And I have no stomach for that.”

“Much has she taken from you,” Glorfindel said with uncharacteristic bitterness, “Much indeed.”

“My brother, my foster-father, my cousin, my bond…,” Elrond sighed, “She has always had noble motives, maybe that should redeem her.”

“She will not be redeemed in the end even if Sauron himself is forgiven, Elrond, she has defied them too often and too boldly,” Glorfindel said quietly, “Celeborn, though, remains optimistic. He always has been.”

“I love him for that,” Elrond laughed, “His unflagging optimism is encouragement to everyone. Have you heard the rumours from Lothlórien? That he buoyantly knocks on Galadriel’s door every night though she never lets him in? He is cheerfully determined to worm his way into her bed, I hear.”

“They are a pair,” Glorfindel smiled grudgingly, “I do wonder how they survived each other.”

 

“What do you say?” Arwen asked sleepily, tugging on the dark curls of hair on Elrohir’s scalp.

“I have nothing to say,” Elrohir mumbled, Arwen clucked and he tried improving, “I have nothing to say that could exactly mean what I feel now.”

“Then why don’t you think of a way to divulge this secret to Lord Elrond and Lord Erestor? They are going to skin us,” Arwen sighed. All of a sudden, she wished she had Galadriel’s courage.

“Ada Elrond will not make a fuss. But Ada Erestor, I think we need to escape on a sojourn to Lothlórien,” Elrohir said gravely, “Ada Erestor will not easily resign himself to this. He wanted the ring to be destroyed before we bonded.”

“He was willing to bless the union if we sailed,” Arwen shrugged, “As long as we were away from the shadow.”

“My place is here, I have to see the lands freed from those tormented so many of our family….Gildor, Grandmother, Lindir, Anoriel, your father…so many have suffered the darkness,” Elrohir sighed.

“My place is here too,” Arwen said quietly, “I have little interest in sailing as of now. I love Imladris and I love Lothlórien more. I do not think I can sail leaving behind our kin. On a lesser scale, I too wish to make reparation for my father’s folly. Do you not wish to see your mother?”

“I do,” Elrohir whispered as he looked into her deep grey eyes, “I wish to see her, to ask her why she felt life here was not worth living. She abandoned us most fickly. But most of all, I wish to just see her happy and content with her life. And I long to see her child. Ada Elrond said it was a daughter, a step-sister.”

“You will see them, we will see them. When we sail,” Arwen said confidently.

“I know,” he laughed weakly, “Imagine her shock when she knows we are married. Perhaps we could even introduce her to a grandchild or two?”

“I would love a son,” Arwen agreed contentedly, “A mischievous one.”

“Maybe twins?” Elrohir said hopefully, “Maybe not,” he sighed, “We drove Ada Elrond, Ada Erestor and Glorfindel mad with our mischief. I would settle for a pretty daughter, in your like and bearing.”

“Hmm….,” she mumbled as she lapsed into warm dreams.

“Have you ever wished to see your mother?” Elrohir asked quietly.

“My mother?” she became alert, her eyes penetratingly searching his, “Why? She has not sailed. She is in Lothlórien, brooding over her past. I can see her anytime I wish. Though I never shall. She deserves a slow, lingering death. She has cost many a life…Amroth, Anoriel, my father…I can never forgive her for what she has wrought.”

“She must be a much-tried woman, and certainly a long-grieving one,” Elrohir broached hesitantly, “Would it not be better to bury the past?”

“Yes, I have buried the past,” Arwen said in a steely voice, “And buried her with it.”

 

Erestor glanced at himself in the long mirror that stood in the kitchens. His dark, sable hair was fastened by a simple clasp at the nape of his neck, drawn away from his face. That made his face more hollowed out and pale. His rich purple robes floated gently about him, caressing his frame almost sinfully. This was the last time he was wearing anything Elrond gifted, he decided firmly. His friend seemed to have a knack of choosing the most immoral wardrobe in all of elvendom.

Erestor sighed as he recalled the smooth, grey silken robe Elrond had worn for the last council meeting. It had been decadent. Only years of diplomatic etiquette had prevented him from staring at Elrond throughout the long dinner. And now this…

“You look handsome indeed, My Lord,” Lindir greeted him, “The robes become you well.”

“I suspected that,” Erestor muttered, “This is the last time I wear anything to please Elrond. Lindir, I have to get much done this day, would you take on the inventories and the patrol schedules? Elrond hates doing them.”

“I know nothing,” Lindir said hastily, “I am on my way to the gardens.”

“Please,” Erestor said with an imploring smile, “I do need you to help me.”

“As you command, My Lord,” Lindir sighed, falling victim to his friend’s charm once again, “I will do my best, and hope that you are not stuck with double the work at the end of the day.”

 

“My Lord Celeborn,” Haldir said quietly, “A missive from Lord Thranduil.”

Celeborn nodded and took the scroll from the marchwarden, feeling his conscience prickle nastily as he glanced at the familiar features of Haldir. The elf reminded Celeborn of Rúmil. He pushed down his guilt and began reading the scroll.

“Dearest Celeborn,

I write to you fearing Thranduil’s wrath. We have known each other for a long while. You have Thranduil’s best interests in your heart and so do I. I fear that he has been growing more cold-blooded and ruthless of late. I do not blame him, for the situation in Greenwood is fraught with peril. We need aid. I would be grateful if you could be more enthusiastic in guarding your borders. We cannot be expected to patrol the entire periphery of the Anduin.

Ever,  
Gildor.”

“Gildor is concerned about the borders of the Anduin,” Celeborn told Haldir, “I am afraid we will have to be more forceful with our patrols, Haldir. Thranduil cannot be expected to do more than he is doing now.”

“Lord Gildor is in Greenwood?” Haldir asked, surprise flitting across his Sylvan features, “I had assumed he was in Edhellond or Mithlond.”

“He is with Thranduil, of course. He is bonded to the King,” Celeborn shrugged, “And that is well. We need someone to occasionally talk sense into that stubborn fool. Thank you, Haldir, now I must see my wife over this matter.”

“Yes, My Lord,” Haldir moved to the door wondering darkly how Celeborn still thought of Galadriel as his ‘wife’. 

 

“I have had the honour of fighting beside Lord Durin of Moria,” Erestor said gravely, “And I am grateful for the chance to meet his worthy scion.”

“Not worthy, My Lord,” Gloin said humbly, “Not worthy at all. I am but a scion of a poorer offshoot of Durin’s lineage. Alas, for Thorin, the true heir of the lord of Moria!”

Gimli watched with amusement and concern as Erestor Maglorion cunningly drew his usually taciturn father into a free-flowing conversation. The elf had managed to ply Gloin with a generous amount of the excellent Gondorian ale, the effects of which were showing on Gloin’s features now.

“I always tell him, keep your axe sharp and shiny,” Gloin said wisely, “And keep your beard brushed and bright.”

Gimli groaned, he wanted nothing more than to drag Gloin away. But knowing his father’s stubbornness, he knew that he had no chance.

“That is wisdom,” Erestor nodded sagely, “Lord Gloin,” Gimli wondered at the musical tones in which his father’s name was spoken, “We need wisdom to guide us in these times and the might of a dwarven axe.”

“What do you mean, my friend?” Gloin asked companionably, “Anything you ask for, will be done!”

“Ah!” Erestor sighed, “I would never presume to ask of you anything...I am not worthy of that honour, I fear. It is just that the might of the dwarven race would be of immense value and aid in an expedition south. I was telling Elrond that it could not be achieved without dwarven ingenuity.”

Gimli decided that he would never negotiate with this chief-counsellor. There was no chance of winning against him. His father now had a pleasantly surprised look at the warm compliments Erestor had liberally doled out.

“I think you speak true,” Gloin said cheerily, “What say you, m’son?”

“Indeed, father,” Gimli resisted the urge to roll his eyes, “It is true.”

“Would you then have any objection to accompany the warriors in the proposed expedition?” Erestor asked innocently, “That is, if your Lord and Sire here allows. And if you are not pressed for time.”

“Nonsense,” Gloin said, “He will go, Lord Erestor. He needs to get some experience anyway. I assure you, he is entirely at your disposal,” Gimli opened his mouth to disagree, but his father glared and he sighed.

“I am honoured by your acceptance,” Erestor smiled warmly at Gimli before returning to his conversation with an inebriated Gloin.

 

Laiqua Thranduillion gazed at the large murals on the walls of Imladris. He could see many he recognized. His ancestors, he realized. Elu Thingol the Wise and Melian the Fair. There were Lúthien Thingol and Beren One-Handed. There was Dior. There were Elured and Elurin. What had happened to Elurin, Laiqua wondered.

Elured had married and sired Laiqua’s grandmother. And there was Celebrimbor who had loved her. There was Amdir who had married her. Amroth, who had died for love. Anoriel, who had broken her vows to Thranduil. 

Laiqua sighed, he was the last of a dwindling line. What would be his role in their tragic family story?

“Laiqua,” Estel came in and threw a friendly arm about his friend, “Did you hear about Lord Erestor’s madness?”

“I have not heard that Lord Erestor Maglorion is suffering from anything related to insanity,” Laiqua chuckled, “What makes you say so?”

“He has persuaded Mithrandir to lead a ‘walk to Mordor’ to destroy the damned Ring,” Estel said gravely, “You know how persuasive he can get.”

“I do not know if that is a good scheme,” Laiqua said stunned, “I have never heard anything of the sort before!”

“Mithrandir agreed,” Estel shrugged, “And Elrond, as ever, fawns over Erestor’s brilliance. We must do something to stop them. I plan on letting them think they are unopposed now. I will accompany Mithrandir till we cross the mountains. And then, I will persuade him to move to Lothlórien. Galadriel will have better ideas!”

“Who is meant to carry the Ring?” Laiqua asked worriedly, “I do not like the idea at all!”

“That,” Estel sighed, “That is the idiocy, Laiqua!” He took a deep breath and said quietly, “Frodo Baggins!”

Laiqua examined the fey expression on his father’s face in the large mural. It depicted the Last Alliance. The elves had fought beside Men, Dwarves and the Eagles.

“Lord Erestor says that it is time. We no longer can hold back. The Ring’s destruction is our last hope. For me to sail and for you to rule,” Laiqua said sadly, “I will come. Perhaps it is my role in this life. To fight for freedom as my father and grandfather did once.”

“Your father,” Estel began amazed.

“My father,” Laiqua cut in, “He is not responsible for my choices. He has no right to dictate them too.”

Estel did not reply, as he stared at the resolute features of King Thranduil Oropherion depicted in the portrait. There would be an awful lot to account for, if Laiqua persisted in this madness.

“What have you decided to claim as recompense?” Laiqua asked curiously.

“I do not know. Lord Halbarad is my counsellor. He will meet Erestor and decide, I daresay, I really have no say in the matter,” Estel shrugged.

 

The setting sun caressed the terraces of Rivendell. Arwen sighed as she thought about her choice. What would she tell him? What would ever justify her treachery, as he would view it?

“You called me urgently,” Elrohir rushed up to her, a beam lighting his dark features, “What is it?”

“Lord Aragorn has asked for my hand,” Arwen said in a clipped voice.

“What?” Elrohir laughed, “Your sense of humour is decidedly pawky.”

“I mean no humour,” Arwen said coldly, her eyes a cool grey, “I have accepted his proposal, He can have me in marriage after the Ring is destroyed. I am the binding for the Elf-Man alliance,” she smiled frostily, “I am honoured, indeed.”

“Arwen,” Elrohir stared at her wide-eyed, “You are certainly frightening me rather exceedingly now!”

“I merely wished to tell you, Lord Elrohir, to cease your liberties with me in the future,” Arwen said crisply before turning away and returning to the house.

He stood there numbly, his lips parted open and his eyes filled with turmoil. For a moment, he feared that he had seen something of Galadriel in her.

“It is true,” Elladan’s voice broke in, “She has given her hand to Estel.”

“’Dan,” Elrohir had trouble in keeping the raspiness from his tone, “’Dan!”

Elladan drew his brother into a rough embrace, wondering why life would be so unforgiving to those of their house.

 

Arwen Undómiel said quietly as she examined her reflection in the mirror, “For you, Adar. This is the least I can do to repair your folly.”

She was brave, but not brave enough to halt the tears that slid down her cheeks.

* * *

“My dear Elrohir,” Elrond called in exasperation as he knocked on his son’s door, “Do open the door, will you? I have no wish to break it down!”

Elrohir did not reply, as he stared morosely at the ceiling. How could she have done this? On the same day they had consecrated their bond…

As the night fell securely about the valley, Elrohir heard the last set of weary footsteps retiring for the day. He sighed, now he would not be disturbed by Elrond, who needed his rest since he had been exerting his elven ring too powerfully in the last few weeks. Elrond would not tell Erestor, Elrohir was sure, for the half-elf hated to add to his friend’s burdens. Glorfindel and Elladan were on patrol. 

“Ion-nîn?” a voice broke in on his gloomy thoughts, “What is wrong?”

Elrohir sighed in defeat as he turned to his side and saw Erestor standing next to the window, a concerned expression on his moonlit features.

“I was merely weary,” he lied through his teeth, “I see no reason why Ada Elrond had to come and tell you that. I am not an elfling!”

“He did not tell me,” Erestor said defensively, “I heard from Lindir that you had missed dinner. And that Arwen too has missed the meal. I merely wished to ensure that the two of you were fine.”

“Did you creep into her room too?” Elrohir asked bitterly as he pushed himself against the headboard into a sitting position, “Does the word ‘privacy’ mean nothing to you?”

“Elrohir!” Erestor exclaimed as he stepped forward, “I did not wish to intrude in your personal matters, I know you are old enough and wise enough to manage your own affairs. But I cannot help being concerned, please allow a father that latitude. As for Arwen, she is with Lord Aragorn in the gardens.”

Elrohir cursed and rose to his feet, pushing away the bedcovers. He wanted to be alone, far away from his too wise father and well-meaning family. 

“Elrohir,” Erestor’s voice was quiet, “Would you come with me to the river? I was on my way there.”

“Tomorrow is the council,” Elrohir sighed, “You need your rest. Ada.”

“No council matters to me as much as you do, my son,” Erestor smiled sadly, “Would you come with me, please?”

Elrohir nodded, he no longer cared if this was one of Erestor’s more elaborate interrogation techniques. It simply did not matter. 

Erestor smiled warmly before letting himself down the window. Elrohir raised an eyebrow and then followed him. He landed in the shrubbery, frightening a couple of resting birds. Erestor offered a hand to help him up and tsk-ed impatiently.

“Did you learn to jump down so neatly like that while keeping night-time appointments?” Elrohir asked sarcastically.

“Well,” Erestor said amusedly, “My chambers in Círdan’s palace faced the sea. I could not have jumped out of the window, unless I wished to drown in the high-tide.”

“And in Lindon?” Elrohir continued tentatively, it was an unspoken rule in the household that they never spoke of Lindon. 

“In Lindon,” Erestor said quietly, “I had my study facing the King’s gardens. And my chambers faced the courtyard,” he cleared his throat, “Anyway, ion-nîn, I am afraid that I have no exciting tales of nighttime activities to tell you. If you wish to hear some, ask Thranduil. He was skilled in sensing the shortest path from his paramour’s bed to the escape route.”

“I can imagine!” Elrohir chuckled, “I daresay Grandfather too must be quite acquainted with these skills.”

“He seems to grow younger while the rest of us age,” Erestor said dryly, “Well, Elrohir, for your sake I hope that you have inherited something of his youthful optimism.”

“Lord Erestor!” Elrohir cringed as he heard Estel’s voice.

They turned to see Estel and Arwen hand-in-hand beneath the statue of Gil-Galad. 

“Lord Aragorn,” Erestor said politely, “Undómiel,” he bowed to Arwen, “What may I do for you?”

“We merely wished to enquire of Lord Elrond,” Estel said concernedly, “We did not see him in the Hall of Fire after the dinner.”

Elrohir’s eyes defiantly avoided Arwen’s, though he could sense that her gaze was upon him. 

“He had some pressing affairs of state to attend to,” Erestor said smoothly, “I am sure that he will see you before the council tomorrow morning, Lord Aragorn. Now, if we may, the hour grows late and I wish to be rested enough for the council.”

Estel bowed and led Arwen away. Erestor stared after them thoughtfully before tugging a dazed Elrohir towards the path that led to the river. They walked in silence, each absorbed in their own musings. Elrohir was relieved when they finally reached the merrily flowing river. 

He sat down on the familiar boulder and watched absently as Erestor discarded his heavy, ceremonial robes and stretched in relief. Not for the first time, Elrohir admired his father’s stark pale body, smooth skin over a swordsman’s muscles and sinews. Sometimes he had been angry that he had inherited his mother’s features. But as Elladan virtuously reminded him often, there was no use in having a slender frame if one wished to impress maidens. Maidens….his thoughts returned to Arwen…

Erestor dove into the water and stayed submerged for a long moment before surfacing and sighing in pure pleasure. 

“I have been in this position often, you know,” Erestor looked at his son thoughtfully, his eyes darkening with memories, “I would be swimming at midnight while someone waited for me on the rock where you now sit. Gildor, Mithrandir, Elrond, Glorfindel, Lindir, Melmopaen and Ereinion…Each time I see a person sitting on that rock, I am reminded of all those who have been there in the past.”

“Ereinion...Gil-Galad,” Elrohir broached the single topic that he had never dared to do before, but now he was reckless and wished to make his father understand the least portion of pain that he experienced now. He remembered how Erestor had blanched when Haldir had sung that song at the grand dinner.

Erestor began lazily swimming, his long limbs helping him float effortlessly in the water. He considered the overhanging tree branches and the crescent moon that peeped through them before speaking in a tone lower than his usual musical voice.

“He took us in. My sister and I had no kin left except for Celebrimbor, Galadriel, our father and Gil-Galad. But my father had given us over to Círdan’s care. And we have never known him. My mother sailed soon after I had been born,” his eyes darkened in contemplation, “I have heard my former nurses say that I had been a mistake. My parents had never meant for me to be conceived. But it happened…and they decided that they would leave me in Círdan’s care. She sailed, soon after I was born, for the Valar had accepted the breaking of her vows.”

“Why didn’t they leave you with Gil-Galad?” Elrohir asked despite his hesitance.

“I do not know…But I have once asked Cirdan the same,” Erestor swam towards the bank, shuddering slightly, perhaps of the cold night wind, “He said that my father disliked Gil-Galad’s father, Fingon.”

“They were cousins, and they must have known each other well,” Elrohir persisted, “And they say that Fingon was Maedhros’s bonded-mate. Wasn’t Maglor on good terms with his brother’s lover?”

“I have no idea,” Erestor said drearily, “But there is no conclusive proof that Maedhros Fëanorion was ever bonded to anyone. Círdan refuses to give a straight answer to that and Elrond too, has no inkling. If Maedhros had been bonded to Fingon, then he certainly hid it well. And I am afraid that my father was not the only person to dislike Fingon…Even Galadriel never toasts him when we drink to the fallen valiant, and you know how impartial she is.”

“But she loved Gil-Galad,” Elrohir said quietly, “Grandfather says that he was her favourite nephew.”

“Elrohir,” Erestor rose from the river and began drying himself. He flung on a loose robe before sitting down at his son’s feet and leaning against Elrohir’s legs. 

He closed his eyes as Elrohir ran his fingers through the wet hair and then continued, “Galadriel is no fool. And if, I admit that all of this is mere speculation, if there had been some history that made her change her opinion of Fingon for the worse…and if this history involved her, then do you think that she would forgive him?”

“What do you mean?” Elrohir asked incredulously, as he combed the tangled, wet hair caressingly, “Grandmother is capable of much. But she will not hold a grudge against the son because she disliked the father, would she?”

“Galadriel is a much-tried woman,” Erestor said quietly, relaxing into his son’s touch, “And I cannot ever estimate the amount of endurance she must have, to have been through all that she has seen and still stand with her head held high, with the pride of her family shining in her eyes. She is a survivor, Elrohir, never forget that. And as all survivors, she is capable of revenge.”

“What do you mean?” Elrohir asked hoarsely, sudden doubts rising like poisonous fumes in his mind.

“She foresaw his death, and did nothing about it…,” Erestor mused thoughtfully, “I have often wondered. She has tricked fate when it suited her to do so. Remember your parents’ marriage…I loved Gil-Galad, as much as I could. And it still pains me deeply that he could have been saved if she had set her mind to it.”

“Ada,” Elrohir said bleakly, as he felt the pain, confusion and long-suppressed doubt radiating from his father, “How could you keep it all to yourself? How did you manage?”

“I would never have told a soul…,” Erestor sighed, “But I saw you today, and I saw in you the pain that I have been through. I could not let you bear it all alone…I thought that, perhaps, if I tell you what has happened to me, you could know that you are not alone. We are manipulated, Elrohir, by the fates and the people who strive to conquer them.”

“Ada Elrond loves you,” Elrohir offered, not knowing what else he could say, “That is not manipulation.”

“His love remains the only constant in my life, Elrohir,” Erestor laughed wryly.

“Arwen and I are bonded,” the words rushed out of Elrohir’s mouth impulsively.

“I know,” Erestor sighed, “And so does Elrond…We did not raise you by being ignorant of what you are. I know you…and I have seen you falling in love. I knew that you were bonded when I saw you in the morning.”

“She told me in the evening that she is promised to Estel,” Elrohir cut in bitterly, “Women! Mother, Arwen, Anoriel, Menelwen, your mother….Women abandon us, after driving us to the heights of passion and desperation!”

“Think not that a few specimens make the entire race. There are stellar epitomes of womenkind…your grandmother, for one,” Erestor chuckled.

“Arwen,” Elrohir began, but then he failed to get any more words and halted.

“Have you ever known the burden of a legacy, Elrohir?” Erestor asked bitterly, “Whenever I ride into Lothlórien, I see Sylvans who have witnessed my father kill their kin in cold blood…Doriath, Sirion. Arwen shares the legacy, of the kinslayings, of her father’s folly, of the Ring. She has the deep, desperate need to make some sort of penance for her father’s actions.”

“Ada,” Elrohir began, “She had no need to do that…not after bonding with me.”

“She did not know. Halbarad wished to make Lord Aragorn King and that he would take an elven lady as wife, to strengthen the blood of Númenor. She heard of the proposal and then went to Halbarad. She said that she was willing,” Erestor sighed, “By the time I had heard of it, she had already spoken with Aragorn. I hear that Aragorn was surprised, but he had no objections. He is not in love with anyone, and he is willing to accept an alliance with elvendom. It was late to do anything about that. He does not know she is bound. I have no idea what is on her mind.”

“She told me today morning that nothing ever could separate us,” Elrohir cursed, pulling viciously on a tangle in Erestor’s hair eliciting a wince.

“Speak with her,” Erestor said quietly, “Sometimes that is the only means to clear these matters. It requires courage, but then it is worth it. Elrohir, go and ask her. You have the right to ask, and you certainly deserve an answer.”

 

Estel wondered why he was in the gardens with Lord Elrond’s daughter. Hazy memories of the day’s conversation came back to him.

“My Lord,” Halbarad entered the chamber, “The Rangers have decided that crown and wife shall be elvendom’s tributes to us.”

Estel nodded, both were reasonable demands. He would be unopposed to the crown and he would take an elven queen…perhaps one of the daughters of the nobles at court. He had no emotional entanglements. So he really did not care about the choice of bride. 

Duty, he had been always harnessed by that. At the moment, all that he cared about were the Ring, the Quest and the perilous situation in Gondor.

“Have you chosen a bride?” Estel asked his friend and counsellor, the betrothal had to be performed before the Quest.

“Yes, I thought you knew!” Halbarad’s voice was surprised, “The Lady Undómiel wishes to wed you.”

Estel recalled grimly how he had reacted, open mouthed, to his companion’s words. For a moment, he had shuddered, thinking of her pristine beauty soiled by an alliance with mortals. Then he had suspiciously accused of Halbarad of pulling a prank on him, though he knew quite well that the man could not pull a prank even if his life had depended on that.

 

“You are in deep thoughts,” Arwen said quietly, as they walked on the narrow bridge over the waterfall, “May I share them?”

Estel said forlornly, “I am merely overwhelmed, My Lady,” he dully observed the sheer radiance of her skin as it shone against his dark hand. 

“I would never have come to such a decision if I had not a true regard for you, Estel,” Arwen smiled, “I hope that you are not unsatisfied with what elvendom can give you?”

“Lady Arwen,” Estel sighed, “I am not worthy of you. And your father would not be pleased when he hears of this, nor will your brothers. Or your grandparents. Why do you this?”

She reached up with her hands to cup his stubbled face, and raised herself on her toes to bring their lips for a kiss. As their lips met, she could sense the automatic response of the man. She parted her lips invitingly, drawing him in. His hands came about her waist and she leant forwards to support herself against his broader frame. The intoxicating scent of masculine odour pervaded her senses, dizzying her. She tried to shut out the world, to shut out the senses and to concentrate purely on the primal battle that their tongues fought. 

But she could not help the vivid images rising in her mind, of the night she had shared with Elrohir…his tentative, skittish advances, their mutual inexperience, the bliss and satiation that had followed, of falling asleep on his chest exhausted, of waking up to see his grey eyes regarding her with wonder.

Estel broke the kiss and gasped, “My Lady!”

“Regard and respect,” she said in short breaths, “That is what I ask of you.”

“And more than that shall you have if things go well,” he said fervently, his fingers rose to touch her swollen lips.

He had taken many a lover on his wanderings. But they had not stoked the flames in him as this dazzling star did. He breathed in a shudder. She shone like the pure light of the Evening Star, as her father had named her. On her breast hung the lustrous pendant that showed her heritage. He reverently touched the jewel. She clasped her hands over his fingers.

“I am not worthy,” he murmured, “I never shall be, but if this is what you wish, My Evenstar, then I will die to see it done.”

She smiled, her eyes glistening with what he assumed to be tears of joy. Of course, he did not know that she bled for a soul she had spurned; he would never know. She would never give him a reason to know.

 

Elrohir drew back as he saw them outlined against the cascading waterfalls of his fathers’ city. Erestor’s hand closed over his. 

“I suppose that you will ask me to speak with her even now,” Elrohir said bitterly.

“There is much that love can be conquered by,” Erestor said sadly, the weight of centuries falling upon his aristocratic features with an intensity Elrohir had never seen before, “Fear, that made Anoriel leave her prince. Foolishness that parted Amroth and Nimrodel. Fickleness and pride that broke your grandparents’ marriage. Love lasts, but it is often overwhelmed by duty, folly, fate and destiny.”

“They say that true love can never be conquered,” Elrohir remarked caustically.

“Then they have never known love,” Erestor shrugged.

There was such a wealth of emotions in his father’s turmoil-filled eyes that Elrohir temporarily forgot about his grief and clasped Erestor’s hands tightly. Erestor smiled weakly and drew his son into an embrace.

 

He stared at the shards of Narsil, of his forefather’s sword. In that dimly lit room, he could feel the weight of generations falling upon him. He would prevail, he resolved, he would prevail. He would not give in to the temptation as his forefather had. 

For her sake.

 

Elrond finished going over the last of the maps with Mithrandir and locked his study. Sighing, he made his way to his chambers. It was near dawn. He had time for a few hours rest before he rose for the Council. 

He walked into his bedchamber and smiled as he saw his friend sprawled on the large bed, with his head resting against the bedpost. Elrond ran his eyes over the robed figure disapprovingly before working out the easiest method to get his companion out of the robe. Erestor rarely came to his chamber when they had guests in the house. And it had been a long time since they had spent a night together. Elrond was resolved to take this opportunity, perish the thought of the Council and the Ring.

“I saw Elrohir,” Erestor said morosely, “What was Arwen thinking?”

Elrond sighed and removed his robes before joining his friend. As he stretched his limbs and rolled atop Erestor, he recognized the faint shimmer of desire in Erestor’s eyes. Mischievously, he began to rub his body against his companion’s.

“I am thinking, you know,” Erestor complained half-heartedly.

“If you had wanted to think, you would never have come,” Elrond noted promptly, “You came to the conclusion long ago that I am detrimental to your thinking!”

“Not really,” Erestor raised an eyebrow amusedly, “It is just that you make me think in a most carnal manner.”

“Carnality is life,” Elrond pressed a kiss to the hollow at the base of his companion’s throat, registering the racing pulse with delight, “The rest is mere banality.”

“Do you think that Galadriel might be capable of cold-blooded murder?” Erestor panted even as Elrond ran his fingers down the front of his robe, insinuating them within to touch the skin that was still cool from the swim.

“Strange thoughts you have in your mind when I am about to claim you,” Elrond chuckled, “And certainly, she is one lady who is capable of anything, as you and I have seen.”

“I was wondering if she would,” Erestor broke off, struggling to keep his features detached as Elrond ripped the robe apart and hungrily devoured his friend’s body with his desire-laden eyes, “Is there anything that you have not seen before?” Erestor smiled up at Elrond, his eyes sparkling in merriment.

“I could be with you every moment of our life and still not know much about you,” Elrond whispered as he pressed their bodies together, warm skin to cool skin, “Familiarity does not reduce the marvel that is you.”

“It might be reduced if we were bonded completely,” Erestor said bitterly, tracing Elrond’s lips with one long forefinger.

“Then it is better that we are not bonded completely,” Elrond smiled, “I would not want to stop marveling at you.”

“Arwen and Elrohir,” Erestor began again.

“Leave them,” Elrond commanded, “Tonight is for us, not for our children, not for our kin, not for our house, not for our realm…just for us. Can you shut out the entire world and pretend that we are alone? That you are mine and I am yours for this night, no holds barred?”

“There were never any holds barred,” Erestor said gently, clasping Elrond’s neck and drawing him into a deep kiss. Elrond shivered as a skilful tongue probed his mouth, seeking, giving and pervading every inch of his mouth.

They broke apart, Erestor lay back down on the bed, a warm expression on his face as he spoke, “I am yours. Claim me, madden me, do what you will. This night is for us.”

“Close your eyes,” Elrond whispered, “And don’t open them again till I ask you to.”

“As you say,” Erestor obeyed languidly, “But I love watching you in the heights of ecstasy.”

“I suspected that,” Elrond chuckled, “Since you are always keen on never climaxing with me.”

“Yes,” Erestor breathed, “I love seeing your bliss, your relaxation after that, the warmth of your body and the scent of you lingering on me.”

“People might be shocked if they realize the hitherto unknown poetic guile of the Chief-Counsellor of the Noldor,” Elrond said teasingly, as he idly trailed his fingers on Erestor’s jutting hipbones, “I wonder how Maedhros looked under his clothes. He was a magnificent specimen.”

“Thinking of him when you have me underneath you,” Erestor scolded, “That is not a noble thing to do!”

“I have nothing but my imagination to help my fantasy,” Elrond laughed, “He was not as comfortable as Thranduil with promiscuity.”

“Will you get on with it?” Erestor groaned, “I cannot wait any longer. We can fantasize about all our ancestors after we complete this, Elrond! Now, on with it!”

“In a moment,” Elrond teased as he ran his fingers between his friend’s parted thighs, circling towards the sensitive nerve-endings of the perineum.

Erestor gasped as the fingers made contact and threw his head back. Elrond hastily placed a pillow under Erestor’s head, wondering if mere touch could elicit such a response then what a penetration would achieve. 

As he saw Erestor’s arousal at its peak, he decided to try his long-standing fantasy. Making sure that his friend’s eyes were closed, he prepared himself stealthily, biting his lips to stifle the sounds and smoothly sheathed down onto the destination. 

“Elbereth!” Erestor cried out, “Elrond! What--?”

Elrond thought of his early interludes with Thranduil and smiled reminiscently. He had not put half of those lessons to good use till now. He pulled up and drove down in fluid movements, noticing that Erestor’s eyes were still closed, but the long fingers had clasped themselves tightly about the headboard in a frantic grip. Elrond drove them one final time as Erestor reached his climax and fell back, spent and exhausted, his chest heaving with deep, shaky breaths. 

Elrond then coated his undiminished arousal with the oil and slid himself into his relaxed friend. Erestor’s hands came about his waist in a bruising grip even as he parted his legs wider for easing their movements. 

Elrond knew that he would peak soon, so he drove in withholding nothing, watching in awe as a near-reverent expression fell on Erestor’s features. In all the times they had made love, he had never seen Erestor’s face so expressive.

As Elrond reached his climax, Erestor opened his eyes, lustrous and bright, as he whispered fervently, “Yours.”

“And yours,” Elrond smiled as he reached down to press a sloppy kiss to his friend’s cheek, “We match well, I say.”

“I have long wanted to tell you that,” Erestor chuckled as he nudged Elrond from atop him, “But do get off, you lumpy half-elf.”

“Gil-Galad was heavier,” Elrond complained, “Don’t you dare say he wasn’t.”

“He was, probably,” Erestor said equitably, “But he has never been in this position. No one ever has had me so spread-eagled.”

“Ah! What makes me lucky then?” Elrond nuzzled the long, aquiline nose.

“I do not know if you are lucky,” Erestor chuckled as he slapped off Elrond from his nose, “But I do know that you mean more to me than anyone else ever have.”

They stared at each other for a long moment.

“Elrond! Mithrandir wants a word with you!” Glorfindel’s voice boomed into the room from the outer corridor.

Elrond sighed as he rose from the bed. Erestor’s hand crept into his right hand and Elrond clasped it tightly before releasing it. On a whim, he leant over to kiss his friend’s noble forehead. Then he hastily scooped up his robes and left the room.

Erestor lay on the bed, too exhausted to even consider pulling the coverlet atop his spent body. He listened to Elrond’s rich baritone followed by Glorfindel’s smoothly rippling tones. He closed his eyes; he could even pretend that he was hearing Thranduil’s rich, sensual tones, Gildor’s thoughtful, calm voice and Gil-Galad’s deep, strong voice. Where had life led them all?

“My Lady Elbereth,” he whispered, “At least, you had to make no choices. Eru gave you a bonded-mate, and there was peace ever after.”

 

Thranduil Oropherion absently gazed at the stars. He could sense the pulse of Greenwood, the forest was wary and silent. He cursed fluently in Dwarvish. How long could he hold to his will, remain sane and keep his lands safe?

Would his fate be Celebrimbor’s? Things moved in circles, he mused bitterly. Perhaps, he would pay for his kinslaying by meeting Celebrimbor’s fate. To be caught alive, defending his realm…to be morphed into a state worse than death…

He cursed again, glaring at the stars. 

 

Galadriel stood by her window, looking up at the stars. The Stars of Elbereth, she mused wistfully, there was once a time when she had been taught by Varda Elbereth. Now it was an irony that she could not even touch the stars, far less see their kindler. 

There was a knock on her door, she smiled resignedly as she heard his familiar voice, “Galadriel? Have you retired?”

“No,” she went to open the door, “But it is high time I did, I daresay. Why have you not retired, My Lord?” she asked, this had become a part of their nightly routine.

“I saw the sickle moon,” he sighed as he ran a hand through his hair, “And was reminded of you.”

She raised an eyebrow at him, even as she struggled not to press an impulsive kiss to his silvery hair.

He took in her glare and began laughing, doubling over hysterically. She was about to ask for an explanation, but she fell prey to his contagious mirth and began laughing. 

It was not until they had both subsided into weak chuckles that she realized that she had not laughed in decades. The sound of her mirth had become a stranger even to her. 

His eyes met hers soberly as he said, “We will reclaim it all, Altáriel.”

 

Elrohir knocked on the door pensively. She opened it, her eyes determined and resolute, though her frame shivered in the cold morning air.

“I wished to tell you that,” Elrohir broke off, then he frowned; he was the son of one of the most eloquent people on Middle-Earth, why would he hesitate? Resolutely, he continued, “I wished to tell you that I wish for an explanation. You have treated me most despicably, is all of womenkind so? Or is it that I have met the worst examples of the kind?”

“’Ro,” she said quietly, her eyes deep pools of sympathy and pain, “I will be probably be damned thrice to the Void for the sacrilege of the vows I have committed. But I wished to make reparation for my father’s sins. I am bound to the curse of our house, I would not have you too in the void. If you forswear your father’s heritage and choose your Sindarin bloodline, you shall escape. I would never bring you down with me.”

“No, you shall never bring me down with you,” he laughed contemptuously, “For you have brought me down before you, Undómiel. Bound to me, you are…and bound ever to you am I. have you thought of a solution? Or how would you explain your unwillingness to bind to Estel? If he ever finds out?”

“I marry a man,” she said steadily, “And men do not follow our customs. I shall wed him in body and name.”

“Do as you see fit,” Elrohir spat, “I shall ever wish you well, My Lady, but I shall never be healed of your treachery.”

“I have my reasons,” she said coldly.

“I pray those reasons help you at your Judgement,” he cursed before stalking away.

 

“Your sister,” Estel whispered as he joined Elladan and Elrohir, he gazed in awe and admiration at Arwen Undómiel, who was speaking with Laiqua, “Truly, an Evenstar of her people.”

* * *

He walked swiftly through the corridors, his robes swirling about him. What had gone wrong? Everything, every single thing, he had planned and manoeuvred. Why had the young prince jumped in? Disaster, he brooded darkly, there was no other word for it. 

“’Restor!,” Glorfindel caught up with him.

“He must withdraw,” Erestor said coolly, “And you will go, my friend, for the simple reason that you have experience unparalleled and he has little knowledge of lands beyond his own realm.”

“Do you think that the son of Thranduil Oropherion will withdraw?” Glorfindel asked laughing hollowly, “The fool is stubborn to get himself killed.”

“I will speak with him,” Erestor said decisively, “I shall dissuade him, fool that he was today.”

 

As Erestor walked to the gardens, he wondered what had made the young prince volunteer for this suicidal role.

He had chosen Mithrandir since there was no way they would have the remotest of chances in the wild without a guide. And, Erestor thought grimly, Mithrandir had to make up for his blundering over Saruman. Boromir was a valiant man, but a man protective of his own. He would protect his fellows with his life and more. And Aragorn was the latest of a long line sacrificing himself for his forefather’s idiocy. The Halflings, Erestor thought perplexedly, they were meant to be here though he did not know why. The dwarf was required to secure an alliance with the race if everything came to a disastrous end. Thranduil would need succour from Erebor. 

Erestor had weighed all his options and narrowed them to Glorfindel. He was convinced that this mission would be the crowning glory in his friend’s long list of successes. Who else had defied Wraiths over and over again and yet lived to tell the tale? Courage untarnished by lesser motives, Erestor had thought warmly, that was what made Glorfindel exemplary amongst the elves. 

“My Lord Erestor,” Laiqua Thranduillion’s calm, melodious voice brought him out of his musings, “I have rarely seen you in the archery grounds before.”

“If foolishness is what results from the extensive practice of archery, then I am glad indeed that I do not frequent these arenas,” Erestor said sarcastically.

“It was my choice, if Frodo Baggins had the courage to take the responsibility of the Ring, then it is the least we can all do to see that he is not alone!” Laiqua replied with conviction.

“Do you think that we would have abandoned him?” Erestor asked incredulously, “The Ring is more our concern than a Halfling’s.”

“The Ring is a concern of every race,” Laiqua said steadily, “The men have lost much because of its malice, the dwarves have lost much. We have lost more since we have a longer lifespan than the other races.”

“Why did you volunteer?” Erestor asked angrily, “Have you any idea what you have got yourself into?”

“I wished to make a show of solidarity with Frodo, Mithrandir and Estel!” Laiqua exclaimed passionately, “Do you think that only a few of you can value friendships unto your own destruction?”

Erestor reined in his temper and said quietly, “Ernil Laiqua Thranduillion, I am sorry to know that your grasp of the diplomatic is so less. I cannot understand how you would ever think that the council reactions were impulsive. As every council, this too was stagemanaged. Why would a dwarf volunteer to go along if not for prior bribery? After all the work I put into this, you have made it a farce. The best thing you could do will be to withdraw and let Glorfindel take your place. At least, that will help Frodo.”

“Are you questioning my skill as a warrior?” Laiqua asked furiously, “I may not have fought in the last alliance, but I have better claim as a warrior than you have. What have you to show, except for setting a city ablaze and then watching your soulmate burn to death?”

Erestor shook his head saying crisply, “This is not about your skills. This is about the chances of success!”

Laiqua watched in trepidation as dark fire rose in Erestor’s eyes, transforming the aristocratic features into something surreal, into the never-dying fire of the line of Finwë. He should not have insulted Erestor’s pride. He had struck something deep within the chief-counsellor.

The prince involuntarily moved a step backwards before saying stubbornly, “I shall not withdraw.”

“Then you shall perish and the mission will fail!” Erestor said coldly, “I will no longer listen to your reasons. If anything, I would have you do one thing properly, send a missive to your father why exactly you are abandoning him when he needs you in Greenwood.”

“My father has never needed me, or anyone,” Laiqua said angrily, “He is, and always has been a lone fighter. I doubt he would have ever let me take up weapon if not for Gildor’s and Mithrandir’s coaxing.”

“When you have known loss, you will understand him,” Erestor said pityingly, his eyes measuring the prince penetratingly, “He will need you in the times to come.”

“He will learn that he needs me in the hard way,” Laiqua shot back fuming before striding away towards the mansion, his flaxen gold hair flying behind him.

Erestor picked up the discarded quiver and began slowly walking towards the house, his chiselled features set in sorrow as he wondered how he would explain this in a detached letter to his dear friend.

 

“Elrohir,” Elladan rubbed his eyes wearily, “Why do you say that we must go and aid the Rangers in this? We are needed to see to our own city, and to clear the paths. The mountains are beset.”

“Laiqua wishes to accompany Estel,” Elrohir said quietly, “Thranduil might need us in Greenwood. We must accompany the Wandering Company.”

“I thought that you had no wish to see Estel alive,” Elladan said bitterly, glaring at the locket that was set in Elrohir’s belt, it contained a strand of her hair.

“I am above petty things as that,” Elrohir said simply, “Our family needs to win this, ‘Dan. This is the last chance that we have. I wish to see Galadriel win. And for that, I do not mind seeing the Evenstar marrying even an orc. As she pointed out to me, we have a duty to our family.”

“I see no reason in all of this,” Elladan said quietly, “My brother, it wounds me to see that you too decide to take the rocky path of defiance that our family seems to cling to. But whatever path you choose, I shall be at your side. That is my place.”

“Would you forget all that happened?” Elrohir rose to his feet and paced impatiently, “Would you forget the sundering of our grandparents, would you forget all that Gildor has suffered for the cause? All that Galadriel has sacrificed? The valiant deaths of all those who walked before us? Would you pretend that we do not care when even Thranduil and Círdan have joined forces with our kin to see this curse undone? Would you pretend that we do not care when nine helpless souls travel to Mordor to sacrifice themselves for a folly wrought by our kin?”

Elladan watched his twin storm on, his heart sank in sorrow. This was it, then. He had always known that his twin and he had differing views on many a matter. But they had never differed so widely as they did now. Elladan did not wish to aid the Rangers or to travel to Greenwood. He wished to stay in Imladris and defend their borders, to send those who could be spared across the sea. He wished to safeguard what was left to them.

“How can you let Laiqua go and sit back doing nothing?” Elrohir ended his tirade passionately, his eyes flashing with the fire of their line.

Elladan shook his head saying wryly, “Laiqua will not reach Lothlórien ere his father sends an armed escort to fetch him back. Do you think that Ada Elrond and Ada Erestor mean to let him go on this perilous journey? Even if they did not oppose Laiqua, they would still prevent this for their love of Thranduil.”

“Ada Erestor might,” Elrohir shrugged, “But Ada Elrond holds a different view. I think he is not happy with the covert manoeuvre that Ada Erestor performed to bring this quest together. They rarely disagree, but this might be one rare day they do not see each other eye to eye over something, I am worried.”

 

“You are not thinking of allowing him to go!” Erestor exclaimed disbelievingly as he rose to his feet and strode to the window, “He is too young!”

“What of the younger Halflings?” Elrond asked quietly, “It is unfair that we allow them a choice while we give the prince none.”

“Thranduil,” Erestor began.

“Thranduil is a father,” Elrond said simply, “And the Halflings have kin too. And so has Gimli. Do you think that tricking Gloin to send his son on this mission was worthy of you, Erestor?”

“It was necessary,” Erestor fixed his eyes on Elrond’s sad grey gaze, “And it had to be done. This is different, Glorfindel is a better warrior.”

“Yes, he is,” Elrond tilted his head, “Have you thought that the prince goes out of a sense of loyalty to Estel? That he wishes to accompany the Halfling since he does not want Frodo to bear it alone?”

“His motives are noble,” Erestor raised an eyebrow, “But his chances are slim.”

“You think of chances like a strategist,” Elrond sighed, “So does Galadriel. So does Thranduil. When will you understand that life is lot more than mere strategies? It is about loyalty and love.”

“Perhaps,” Erestor leant against the windowframe, “All the same, I would take up philosophy with more happiness and eagerness after we have won. Till then, I beg you to let me strategize. We must win, Elrond, at whatever cost.”

“I will not oppose Laiqua’s decision. It is his choice,” Elrond said resolutely, “We did not give Undómiel a chance to choose. Look at where that has got her and Elrohir. I will not repeat my mistake, I should not have fallen in accord with your plan that day in Lothlórien. Honour and pride are not worth the destruction of a bond.”

Erestor turned to watch the sunset, his eyes lingering on the blood red lines on the horizon. He exhaled deeply before saying, “As you wish, Elrond. I shall not oppose the prince’s will in this matter. But I shall write to Thranduil as soon as I can. Perhaps I am callous and cold, but I will not care as long as we can save what remains to us. I will not let Thranduil perish with us in these lands. He has no curse on him.”

“Thranduil made his choice long ago when he helped me fix your wedding,” Elrond walked to join his friend, “We were all bound to each other from the first sunset, Erestor. I will not oppose you on any other matter. Do as you will, and I shall bow in to your superior wisdom. In the matter of the prince, I oppose you merely because I have never understood diplomacy. I know that he cannot equal Glorfindel in any aspect, but his heart is true to the cause.”

“What will I tell Thranduil?” Erestor murmured as they watched the sun sink down the treeline, leaving a dull red sky.

 

He wandered aimlessly through the garden, his thoughts on her. It was ironic, he smiled, this falling in love all over again. He wished to see her every moment, and then in her presence he became tongue-tied and insecure. He was trying so desperately to impress her. Age seemed to have no effect on them.

She was in her favoured bower, her cream gown floating gently in the soft breeze. Wisps of golden hair swayed in the wind, haloing her pale face. Her blue eyes were unfocussed in reverie, as she rested against the seat, half-lying and half-sitting. He smiled indulgently and sat beside her, his fingers moving automatically to entangle themselves in the golden tresses.

Her hands held a redbacked leather tome open, her fingers wedged into a page as if to let the ink on the parchment dry. The quill lay on the grass beneath her feet. 

He knew what the book was. He had never touched it, he should never touch it, for it was her personal records of her life. But he felt curiosity consuming him and he gently pried it out of her hands.

She murmured softly and then folded her hands into a headrest, rubbing against his thigh unconsciously. He returned his fingers to their former task of running through her hair and balanced the book open on his lap. A random page opened, and her characteristic flowing hand greeted him. 

 

Doriath

 

I had a conversation with my cousin today. While it is not unusual in itself, I record this for my personal memories.

“Return with me, Artanis,” he begged earnestly, “I can take you to Ereinion. He holds true to the bonds of kinship. Or I could take you to Sirion and Balar. Telperinquar has joined me there.”

“My place is with my husband,” I spoke firmly, “I will never return to the family that so cruelly used me.”

“Findekano is dead,” he murmured, his grey eyes unending pools of turmoil that it broke my heart to see him thus, “He fell in flames. I was late to succour him. Too late, I could salvage only the helm.”

“He deserved to perish in flame,” I said remorselessly, “He deserves to burn ever in flame.”

“I was there,” he continued sadly, “They could not put the flames out. They could not slay him outright. He died horribly.”

“As should have been his fate,” I said resolutely, “Will you not join Turkano?”

“No,” he said decisively, a sad smile lighting his handsome face, “I bring sorrow upon all I love. I would not bring it upon him too. It is sad to know that my brother is set on following me till the end. At least, you have escaped.”

I reached out to cup his face and raised myself to my toes as I brushed my lips against his jaw. I whispered, “To me, my husband is life. I will love you, cousin and I will love Macalaurë ever. But our paths diverge. The doom rests upon us. But I cannot stand with you at the end, I have chosen a different life.”

“Is it cruel that I wishfully think you had stayed back in Valinor? That you had married Macalaurë and stayed content?” he whispered as he embraced me.

“No,” I said simply, “I regret nothing. I have met my Silver Tree, which would not have happened otherwise. And Macalaurë would never have chosen me over you.”

 

“What are you peeping at?” her sleepy, content voice broke in abruptly, “There are reasons why you should not trespass, you know.”

“I am sorry,” he hastily closed it and handed it back to her, her blue eyes were curious as they waited for an answer, “Just flipped it open at random.”

“There was something,” she protested, her eyes narrowed, “Though I did not know that you read Quenya so fluently.”

“I used to find love poems from the Quenya masters of old, and would try to send them to you,” he confessed, his lips breaking into a weary grin, “But Oropher confiscated the lot. I hope he burnt them, I shudder to think what Thranduil might have thought if he had lain his hands on them.”

“Given how bad your hand is,” she yawned and settled more comfortably on his thigh, “I doubt that Thranduil would ever succeed deciphering them.”

He did not reply, as he resumed stroking her hair. After a long moment, he asked tentatively, “Maglor Fëanorion…”

“I loved him,” she said simply, “From our days in Valinor. But then fates intervened, most callously. I buried my regard for him and travelled to Doriath. There I met a wild, young, brash Sindar Prince who just consumed my heart whole and raw. He was a fey creature. And still remains one.”

“Honoured to hear that,” he laughed as he bent to brush his lips against her nose, “But I cannot imagine you in love with anyone else….and in love with Maglor.”

“He was very lovable,” she laughed as she threaded her fingers into his silvery tresses and brought down his lips onto hers, “He had a fine voice, a finer figure and the finest intellect. I think he was wasted on Carnilótë.”

“Well, I doubt it was a waste,” he remarked, “Elrond, for one, is very thankful to that union.”

“Hmmm…Erestor does resemble his father so,” she agreed, “but I have felt more of my eldest cousin in him. The same diplomat and the same fearless warrior. But, my cousin was an abstainer of sorts. Erestor and Elrond are very devoted to the arts of the bower.”

“He was an abstainer?” he shuddered, “What a waste of his parents’ work! And what was his reason for such folly?”

“Love,” she said quietly and met his sapphire eyes, “He feared love. He feared what it might do to the person he loved. He was the staunchest fighter for the cause of love. He made my brother accept our love. He forgave many a person for their desire…and he did not ever, ever discriminate you based on whom you loved. He was a soul who walked ahead of his time.” 

“Maglor,” he whispered, “He loved his brother…”

She did not reply as she pulled him for a deep kiss, his eyes closed in the sensation. But her eyes were still fixed on her past, on those whom she had loved and left. He would never know what she had been once. He might hear of it, but he would never understand.

The clamour of trumpets as the horses rode into her grandfather’s courtyard, as her cousins, brothers and uncles dismounted….The white banners fluttering in the light of Laurelin as her grandfather ascended to his throne…Dancing with her cousins as Maglor sang sweet ballads, odes to love and beauty…Riding and hunting alongside them…She could see herself standing proud, tall and beautiful as no other woman except Aredhel had been…She had been a princess of her people.

“I love you,” he whispered as he leant his forehead against hers.

“That is the only salvation I seek,” she smiled.

* * *

Thranduil Oropherion smiled warmly as his counsellors sat down for the latest of increasingly frequent war-chamber meetings. 

Thalion, who sat to his left, wondered how Thranduil could wear the mask of the assured King so easily even as they were forced back north by Wild men and the orcs from the east and the south of the forest.

“My dear friends,” Thranduil began confidently, “Our warriors continue to bravely hold our perimeters safe as we speak. I do not think that we require any immediate change in the patrol deployments. The current formation seems to be most effective.”

We do not have the numbers to employ a different formation, or the troops to defend any more outposts, Thalion mused ironically. He had been forced to quit his services as the healer; they needed him to manage the northern borders. Thranduil had taken on the south eastern areas while Gildor was battling for each inch of ground in the vicinity of Dol-Guldur.

“My Lord,” an aide entered the chamber, “A missive from Imladris.”

Thranduil smiled, this time his expression truly warmer as he murmured to Thalion, “Must be from Laiqua. You can leave the north to him as soon as he steps in Greenwood, my dear evicted healer.”

“I look forward to it,” Thalion said dryly, “Now, go, and take the missive.”

Thranduil left the chamber, and Thalion continued with the tedious reports that the counsellors were poring over. After a few long moments, the King reentered the chamber, his face as assured and unaffected as usual.

“When may I take my armour off?” Thalion enquired as Thranduil sat down, the missive tightly scrolled in his hands.

Thranduil said quietly, his emerald gaze cold, “When Sauron has fallen, Thalion, until then we shall never know a life out of armour.”

“Laiqua?” Thalion asked tentatively, recognizing the slightly sharp tone of Thranduil’s voice, “When is he due to return?”

Thranduil’s eyes stared at the large portrait of Oropher that graced the wall before he murmured, “Things move in circles, and in the end, we all have to fight our battles alone. He has his causes and I have mine.”

“What mean you, Thranduil?” Thalion asked in a low, perturbed voice as the counsellors continued their discussions.

“Celeborn once told me how reluctant Amdir was to let his daughter leave his nest,” Thranduil said bitterly, “Then I did not understand a parent’s mind. Now, Thalion, I find myself in the same position as Amdir had been then. Love took her from her father’s nest, and Isildur’s mistake shall take my son from me.”

 

Elrohir stood beside Arwen and Elrond as the company of Nine walked out of the gates of Imladris. He raised his hand in a farewell salute as Laiqua Thranduillion turned once to wave to those who still stood on the steps of the courtyard. Elladan had already bid a private farewell to his friend last night, and was now probably with Glorfindel securing their borders. Erestor was nowhere to be seen, Elrohir was not surprised. His father had taken Laiqua’s determination in a very foul temper. 

“I suppose that we have to place our hopes on Frodo’s fragile shoulders,” Elrond whispered as he circled his arm around Arwen’s waist, pulling her to him.

Elrohir tried not to notice the tear trail that marked her gaunt face, she looked as if she had not slept in weeks. He frowned suddenly as he noticed what was amiss.

“Where is the Jewel of Fëanor?” he asked despite his vow never to speak with her directly.

She met his gaze fearfully before averting her eyes and saying softly, “I gave the pendant to Estel, something of mine to remind him of what he stands to claim when they succeed.”

“Most noble,” he spat before turning and ascending the steps hurriedly, his breath coming in angry, heated spurts.

She sighed and made to move from Elrond’s reassuring, warm grip, but he did not relent. His steel grey eyes were watching her concernedly as he began guiding her towards the gardens.

“I confess that I have come to have a paternal sense of possession regarding you,” he smiled as they walked along the paths bound by the roses that were Lindir’s pride.

“I do not deserve it, given how deplorably I have,” she cut off abruptly, shaking her head, “I had no choice.”

“I understand,” his voice was immersed in centuries of regret, endurance and an all-encompassing resolution, “I understand more than you can ever imagine. For I have had to choose between what I believed in and what I loved.”

“And you chose love,” she said bitterly, feeling the dampness of the tears against the cold winds.

“Yes,” he said simply, “I have always chosen love over loyalty, duty and the rest. To me, only that mattered, and I have never regretted it. My choices have destroyed the lives of many, including that of Elrohir and you,” he let go of her hand, “But I can never seem to regret not trying to force Isildur that night in Mordor. I wished to live, to keep my friend alive. Selfish,” he laughed sadly, “And that I have never felt guilt regarding my choice speaks of how depraved I am.”

“I have never held you to blame. My father, he crafted the rings,” she said quietly, “seduced by Sauron. On him lies the blame, the blood and lives of many. I deserve no peace for his mistakes.”

“Mistakes are not sins,” Elrond said simply, “And there are many of us who would spare you the bloodlegacy you are fated to carry, Undómiel. Things of beauty, sadly enough, rarely ever know happiness and peace.”

Arwen smiled pensively as she stared into his wistful grey eyes, “My father once told me that Maedhros Fëanorion had grey eyes, how came you by that legacy, My Lord?”

Elrond’s face turned animated as he said, “His eyes were remarkable, silver-tinted grey, eyes that held wisdom, sadness, fragility and determination all at once. I am afraid that none of us had that legacy. My eyes are my grandfather, Tuor’s.”

“I see,” she smiled thoughtfully, “I have always wondered how he would have looked. They say that he was as purifying fire, fell and frightening.”

“The portraits do not do him much justice truly,” Elrond observed, “He was a kind soul, my father was the commanding force. Erestor has inherited it from him. I believe that your father once tried to hew a sculpture of Maedhros, but he refused to sit for it.”

“Where do you think they are?” she asked almost inaudibly.

“I often wonder,” he sighed as he stared at bright skies, “What would it take to free them? To break the gates of Mandos? To bring the starlight into the Void?”

 

Laiqua tried his best to stay away from the rest of the company, as he brooded upon the last conversation he had with his father. Thranduil would not take his volunteering in merry spirits, Greenwood could not spare leaders. Erestor was right, this would be the first time that his father needed him to fight for their lands.

“Elvish flights of fancy?” the dwarf’s booming voice enquired as the rest settled for the night.

“I wish they were,” Laiqua said wearily.

Laiqua could see Estel and Boromir speaking in hushed tones as they shared a bedroll. And the Halflings were already deep in slumber. Mithrandir was smoking quietly, his head pointed up at the clouded skies. Suddenly, Laiqua wished that he had not come, he was an outsider here. He did not belong to this company, he belonged with his father’s warriors in Greenwood. He remembered the quiet conversation he had with Elladan as they lay satiated in the warm, afterglow of shared pleasures.

“Why did you not volunteer to fight by Mithrandir’s side?” Laiqua had asked, “You have had much to do with him in the past.”

“I wish him well,” Elladan said drowsily, running his fingers through his companion’s flaxen hair, “But I cannot abandon Imladris. Your father will sorely miss your weaponry in his defences. Grandfather cannot hold the borders of Anduin and the High Pass safe. And it would be cruel to expect that Thranduil will continue to defend them given the situation in your lands. Elrohir and I must ease his burdens.”’

“You think I was wrong to do this?” Laiqua asked stubbornly.

“It is too early to say that,” Elladan smiled sadly, “But I do wish that you had not.”

“My father was tricked into sending me, you know,” Gimli volunteered cheerfully, “Lord Erestor was smooth as a flawless, polished stone at his art.”

“Isn’t he always?” Laiqua smiled, “I hope that you do not hold it against him though. He is a kind soul.”

“I do not hold it against him, I have always wanted to throw away my life on suicidal quests as these. And travelling in such assorted company, I am truly blessed by Aule!” Gimli snorted as he sat down heavily on a rock above Laiqua.

The prince chuckled saying, “The company is assorted indeed. Sauron should thank Erestor for picking up such a lot.”

“Was it just my thick head, or was there an obvious lack of elvish chanting in Rivendell?” Gimli asked curiously, “I have travelled through many elven settlements and I always find them bawling to the winds.”

Laiqua threw his companion an amused look before replying, “Say that never before Estel, he is most defensive of all things Imladris. But, yes, the Lords of Rivendell are remarkable for their lack of excessive worship of the Valar.”

 

Celeborn pursed his lips as he saw Haldir arrive wounded in Caras Galadhon, yet again. The marchwarden was taking too many risks, risks they could ill-afford in this time of unrest.

“He has asked to lead a company of Galadhrim to Rohan, to Lord Théoden’s aid,” Galadriel stepped next to him on the talan balcony.

“What?” Celeborn asked baffled, “Why would he ask that? He cannot be spared from our borders, as porous as they are. And Rohan?,” he added an emphasis to the last word, “He hates men, doesn’t he?”

“Perhaps he wishes for a change. He has rarely left the borders of Lothlórien all his life,” Galadriel said thoughtfully, “I was thinking of sending him to Thranduil. Maybe that would give him fresh spirits.”

“Thranduil is your cure for everyone world-weary,” Celeborn smiled mischievously at her as she gazed upon the sunlight filtered by the mallorn leaves.

“And it is the best cure,” she raised an eyebrow at him challengingly, “Would you rather I sent the world-weary to Círdan?”

“NO!,” Celeborn laughed, “That would be folly indeed. Sometimes, I wonder what made Círdan turn into the recluse he is. He was not this celibate and unapproachable in our younger days, you know.”

“Everyone cannot be expected to maintain your admirable levels of virility,” she said sardonically.

“My virility is highly inspired by a certain arrogant, wise, fearless woman,” Celebron replied with gusto, taking in with delight the faint colour that touched her cheeks.

 

Laiqua wondered why his father hated caves. The mines of Moria, were truly as splendid and awe-inspiring as Gimli had promised.

“It is no mine, but a tomb!,” Boromir had exclaimed as they had been forced into the narrow, dark passageway.

Even so, it remained a worthy tomb for its industrious makers.

“Thranduil would have sailed than sleeping in a mine,” Mithrandir chuckled as they walked in single file, “He hates even natural caves. I am glad to see that our elfling has no such dislikes.”

“Why does he hate them so?” Laiqua asked curiously, he decided to take offence at the ‘elfling’ endearment later, “I have never been able to pry an answer out of him.”

“It must be his strong Vanyarin blood,” Mithrandir shrugged, “Your father is a paradox, and to know all his secrets eternity would not be enough.”

 

Gildor drew his troops into a defensive position as the orcs attacked yet again. The darkness was drawing nearer, he knew that he would lose what little chances he had with the fading of daylight. 

“My Lord,” his second-in-command rode to his side, wounded and weary, barely keeping himself ahorsed, “Another group sighted to the east.”

“Ready the flanks,” Gildor said curtly, “I shall remain here, until we are in a better position to defend. Move the wounded north, set the horses of the dead free.”

A shrill cry interrupted his terse words and Gildor looked up to see a black form obscuring the sunlight. 

“Wraiths,” the warriors shouted as they began nocking arrows into their bows, even as they drew together to defend against the advancing orcs.

“A Wraith,” Gildor cursed as he raised his sword and kicked his steed forwards. Fear crept like a tight band around him. In all his travels, this was one enemy he had most earnestly avoided.

He had often wondered how Erestor and Thranduil could charge so recklessly against the wraiths. Glorfindel had at least defied death and no more held fear of anything. But Erestor and Thranduil were younger, and yet they would ride bravely against Sauron himself if they had to. 

Gildor recalled the panic that had soared through him as he had watched Thranduil ride against two wraiths, alone and resolute, during Oropher’s ill-advised charge on the plains of Morannon. He had wanted to ride to his friend’s side and throw himself between Thranduil and the cruel wraiths. But he was frightened. Erestor, on the other hand, had charged down the hills with nary a trace of fear marring his features as he rode to his friend’s side.

Now, he would face a wraith. For the sake of defending a kingdom merely because Thranduil ruled it. 

As he stared at the black hood of the wraith, he wished that he had accepted Thranduil’s offer. He might have known the comfort of his dear friend’s body at least once more.

 

 

Glorfindel walked to the large, deserted Hall of Fire, his gloomy countenance dark and brooding. He had been forced to watch the naïve company leave the gates of Imladris. The Halfling, on whom the task rested heavily, his scared friends, the stout but inexperienced dwarf, the valiant but resigned Boromir and a despairing Estel. And there was Mithrandir, Glorfindel thought sadly, who had undertaken to lead this company merely for the episode concerning Saruman and Gildor. Somehow, Glorfindel knew that the Maia had a hard path to travel.

Then there was a very naïve, yet stubborn, Laiqua. Glorfindel wondered how his dear friend would react to Erestor’s missive. He supposed that he should be glad Celeborn was doing such a pitiable fiasco of guarding the paths. Thranduil could not ride to Imladris and rip them all apart, pressed as he was with all the concerns of his realm.

“You do need a tumble,” a richly amused voice spoke from the doorway.

Glorfindel snorted as he turned to face his friend, once more marveling at Erestor’s ability to read his thoughts. Perhaps they had become too accustomed to each other that each and every motion and expression were as an open book.

“Pray, whom may I request to render this invaluable service?” Glorfindel asked ironically, “Or would you volunteer?”

“My taste runs only to half-elves,” Erestor smiled as he strode forward and pressed his friend into a cozy chair by the fire. 

He then set about pouring wine for them, his fingers performing the task with the learned expertise of centuries. Glorfindel stared at the pale fingers that contrasted against the dull redness of wine. He had once thought that Erestor would remain as young and naïve as he had been in Círdan’s household. It was not to be. They were all being ravaged by time, Glorfindel thought darkly as he took in the elegantly regal posture of his friend, the dark hair bound into a plain unadorned braid and the fine black robes that encased the lithe frame. All the same as it had been on the first day Erestor had joined Gil-Galad’s service in Lindon.

But there were minuscule traces of the passage of time. Glorfindel leant back in his chair and scrutinized his friend thoroughly for the first time. The lines on the forehead, the dark circles around the eyes, the slight crinkles that showed when Erestor concentrated…and the eyes…Where once had been hope, joy and goodwill, there was now weary determination, regrets and the haunting sorrow of a soul who had lost much.

“Here,” Erestor prodded his friend good-humoredly, “Drink it before you lose yourself in your musings entirely.”

Glorfindel dutifully took the goblet and sighed as Erestor’s fingers began slowly massaging his shoulders. 

“Elrond does this when I am tensed, and it is a miracle, all his cures are,” Erestor said fondly, his tone warm and content. Glorfindel wondered how sensible the Valar were to call this union illegal when it was built on more love than half the true bondings.

 

Thranduil sighed as he read through the increasingly grim reports that came in from the south. Dol Guldur, he thought bitterly, the fortress seemed very intent on making his worst nightmares worse.

He was drained, and he knew that it was high time he admitted it and delivered himself to Thalion’s care. His vision was blurred and he had frequent fainting spells, which he had done an admirable job of concealing all these days. It had been one of the reasons why he had drafted Thalion into the northern flanks. The healer would have discerned his weakening immediately. So could have Gildor, who was in Dol Guldur. Thranduil was grateful for their absence. He needed to stay on his feet to ensure that the realm survived.

And Laiqua, Thranduil sighed again as he stared at the portrait of his son across him, it had been painted after the prince had joined the patrols. The brash mix of insecurity, bravado and youthful enthusiasm was tempered by Laiqua’s innate compassion and wisdom. For the first time, Thranduil realized what people meant when they said his son resembled Oropher. They shared the same trait of defending causes for the common good. Thranduil knew well that his causes were mostly selfish. Where had he inherited his ruthlessness from? Perhaps, as Thalion was fond of saying, it had been the prolonged exposure to the Noldor.

He felt the familiar unease creep into his veins, the pulse of Greenwood was stridently calling for aid. Thranduil smiled sadly, there was nothing he could do. And to think that he had once been vain enough to think that he would never be overwhelmed by the connection to the forest. A flash of pain shot through him, and he clutched the edge of his desk. His vision blurred and sudden vertigo seized him, making him nauseous. 

Gildor! Thranduil knew instinctively, the bond he had wrought with the leader of The Wandering Company was calling to him for aid, as was the forest. Dol Guldur.

 

Glorfindel wondered why the firm massage had slackened and glanced up in mute disapproval. He rose to his feet and reached out to wipe the fine sheen of sweat from his friend’s forehead.

“Thranduil,” the hoarse whisper shook him to the core.

“Elrond!” Glorfindel caught his friend by the shoulders and helped him into a sitting position in the chair he had just occupied.

 

Gildor shouted to his warriors to break ranks and flee as the wraiths began their massacre. He had feared to face one creature. What would he do to prevail over four? He watched in grim resignation as the warriors fled into the cover of the glades, the wraiths would not pursue them though the orcs might. The duty of a leader, to save as many lives as he could. Gildor knew that the wraiths would have marked him.

“Another of the cursed blood of Finwë,” the high, cold voice jeered even as Gildor backed away in numb fear.

“You are not as reckless as those of your house are usually,” the voices taunted him as he was finally caught between a rocky rise and the creatures.

Suicide had its advantages, Gildor thought desperately, he had no wish to endure worse than he had already done at Saruman’s hands in Isengard. But Mandos would refuse to accept the soul of one born into so cursed a family.

A faint cool breeze played with his tunic, laden rich with the scent of pinewood; the scent of Thranduil, Gildor thought wistfully. He wished he knew how to reach his friend’s mind, to say that he had dearly wanted to confess. Now there would be never a chance, Gildor closed his eyes as he inhaled the scent deeply. It was worthy of being his last memory in this life.

“Oropherion!” the voices exclaimed shrilly, and Gildor felt the wind strengthen.

He was forced to the ground as the wind gusted mercilessly, uprooting even a few saplings and dead trees that stood in its path. The shrill voices of the wraiths were jarred by the howling of the cruel wind and their steeds were forced to the knees.

“Retreat! You cannot do this forever, Oropherion, for now, your friend shall live.”

 

“My Lord!” the exclamations and the fevered ministrations of the aides were lost on him as he was carried to his bedchamber. 

If Erestor had not helped him, linking their minds together recklessly, he was sure that he would have turned a wraith himself or woken in the halls of Mandos. And somehow, he realized as he fought on to cling to life, he did not wish to stop living. He had defied Mandos twice, now he would do it again.

“So we meet again, Oropherion,” the cold voice that he had hoped never to hear again spoke softly, “Let go of your tenuous grip on a world that no longer needs you. Come to my Halls and seek healing.”

He fought desperately, trying to throw off the cold that crept into his veins. He would not give in.

“Ernil-nîn,” the warm, soothing voice of a woman he had known well invited him alluringly, “It does not hurt at all, you know. Return to me, you were always mine.”

 

“I promised myself that I would never let you reach here, ion-nîn,” the sad, austere voice of his father , “But now, I do not think that I could bear to let you go.”

 

“Thranduil,” a low, rich, sensual tone, so like his own, he could feel the warmth and radiance of a woman he had never known, of his mother, “Finally, I see my son.”

 

All whom he had lost were here, if he simply let go, he would know peace.

“Thranduil,” the panicked voice of his friend cut in through his hazy dreams, “Do not give in, please.”

“I am too weak,” he protested in a faint murmur, “I have no strength to fight him anymore, Erestor.”

“I shall not let you give in,” the desperately resolute words struck a chord in him….their early days in Lindon, their sparring sessions, debates, long swims in the sea, walks under the stars, getting drunk in the privacy of their chambers, dancing at all and sundry occasions till their legs refused to support them, the solid support they had been to each other over the highs and lows of life, love, marriage, parenthood and death. 

He could feel the harsh call of Mandos, “Twice have you defied me, Oropherion, take heed and answer this summons.”

“Thranduil,” Erestor’s appeal brought to his mind why exactly he could not lose his grip on life…he had promised them…Galadriel, Elrond, Erestor and Gildor…He would not let them face the end alone.

He willed himself to listen to his friend’s voice and return to life, Namo Mandos would not ensnare him so easily.

* * *

Laiqua decided that he would never return to the mines if he were given the choice, not even for the sake of a friend like Estel. Perhaps his father was right, mines and caves were not for elves…or for Wizards.

“Do you think-?” Gimli’s hoarse, emotional voice broke into his thoughts.

Laiqua breathed in deeply, the unwashed scent of his friend and the foul stench on the wind almost choked him, before saying quietly, “Balrogs are powerful creatures. And this one destroyed an entire army of dwarves, Gimli.”

“Lord Glorfindel,” Gimli began tremulously, looking for the faintest trace of hope.

“He lost his life in the process of killing the creature,” Laiqua said hopelessly, “And he was Eldar, the strength in their blood was more in those days, not yet battered by time. Mithrandir was worn out.”

“He is Maiar,” Gimli said in a small, stubborn voice. Laiqua shrugged and helped his friend climb down the rocks to the banks of the Nimrodel.

“This river has a strange tale behind it,” Estel told Frodo, in a bid to take the Halfling’s mind off the tragedy they had witnessed.

“What is it, Aragorn?” Merry asked with forced enthusiasm.

“Of a love,” Boromir contributed, his reserve overcome by what they had undergone, “Of a love that grew between a King and an elven maiden.”

“A tragic love,” Estel supplied, playing well on the Halflings’ curiosity about the elven tales, “I believe that Legolas can tell us the story, it is a tale of his people, after all.”

“It is no tale,” Laiqua said sharply, “Amroth of Lórien, the second King, was my mother’s brother. And Nimrodel, she was a maid he had fallen in love with. I know not how the tale ends. It is banned in my father’s halls and in Lórien. But Lord Glorfindel once told me that they crossed the sea.”

“Bless you, your uncle was the King?” Sam blurted, “Why, Master Legolas, you did not tell us that!”

Gimli laughed at Laiqua’s expression and intervened cheerily, “Indeed, Samwise, this young elfling has been keeping a lot of secrets, has he not?”

Laiqua rolled his eyes even as the rest of the company laughed, for a moment Mithrandir’s ghost was laid to rest, and the prince wondered if the company had grown closer by the death.

“Lórien is a strange place,” Boromir said hesitantly as they tried to find a crossing.

“Indeed,” Gimli said heartily, clinking his axe against Boromir’s shield, “The Lady is said to be a witch.”

“She is one,” Estel murmured, “And I advise you not to point out that fact before her husband.”

“They say he is a sorcerer,” Boromir said quietly.

Laiqua wondered how the mortals came to forget the alliances of the past so easily. Their ignorance of Galadriel was one thing, but how could they forget Celeborn, who had fought by dwarves and men in the last alliance?

“I beg your pardon, Master Legolas,” Merry piped up, “But isn’t your father a sorcerer too?”

Laiqus gave a long suffering sigh and said wearily, “My father was the ruler of Greenwood when I saw him last. I do not know if he has sought a change of occupation since then.”

“Your father is renowned as a charmer, all the dwarven traders say so,” Gimli supplied with a smirk.

Laiqua wondered if he dare make an allusion to his father’s role as a gaoler in the affair of Bilbo’s adventure. But then, he decided firmly, he would not do it for the sake of general peace. Gimli seemed to be too devoted to his father and would probably abandon this current truce for a duel. And, Laiqua thought grudgingly, Thranduil was a charmer.

“I wish we could have seen him, just once,” Sam was saying wistfully, “Remember how Master Bilbo used to describe him.”

“I resemble my father,” Laiqua said shortly, not looking at Estel’s grinning face, “Though he might be an inch taller than me. And you will see Lord Celeborn soon. All the Sindar look the same.”

“But--,” Boromir began.

“I do not understand why the lot of you seek mirth in this topic,” Laiqua said disbelievingly, “While I am sure that he is an interesting character, I would advise you to refrain from it in Lórien. He is revered there.”

“No,” Boromir said sincerely, “We meant no offense, it is that only you amongst us have kept a steady head so far. And your pert replies help keep us grounded.”

“I think I will sing the lay of Nimrodel,” Laiqua said resignedly. He would not understand these races, but he knew that they liked elven songs.

 

“The two of you are insane,” Elrond said weakly as he slumped into a chair beside the fire.

“He had no choice,” Erestor said gloomily, “Gildor would have been taken captive again, Celebrimbor’s fate..” Glorfindel cleared his throat and Erestor continued quietly, “Thranduil will not take such a risk again.”

“He cannot,” Elrond said sharply, “He is not of the Maiar or Valar!”

“You were reckless,” Glorfindel chastised Erestor quietly, “You could have died, if he had not fought Mandos.”

“No,” Erestor smiled faintly, “I could not have died. I knew he would return, for our sakes. He made a vow.”

Elrond did not reply as he stared into the fire. He feared that Thranduil was now as cursed as they were. Fighting Mandos thrice was not likely to win him the blessing of the Valar.

Emerald green eyes watching him amusedly; a languid, feline form stretched sinuously along the tree branch, the sunrays filtering through the canopy of leaves to lend their radiance to the golden hair of the young prince.

Elrond willed away that image of Thranduil; they had been naïve, innocent and blissfully unaware of oaths and curses.

 

He cried aloud in pain as the flames burnt his flesh. Wildly, he dug his sword over and over again into the dark inferno beneath him. He could smell the stench of his burning skin, the pungent smell of his burning hair and the scent of blood. He was dying. He screamed in agony as he plunged his sword into the fiery depths of his killer.

“Maiar you might be, Olórin,” the cold voice of Mandos was no assurance, “But think yourself worthy to foil the plans of the Valar? Inevitable, your coming to my halls. It was all in vain.”

“NO!” he cried out as he willed away the nauseating pain and began to thrust his sword with all his strength into the creature, “It shall not be in vain!”

With a deep howl that reverberated in the pits of Moria, the creature acceded to its victim the first small victory.

 

“I seem to fail each time I try to keep him safe,” Thalion murmured as he sat by the king’s bedside and looked up at Oropher’s portrait, “it is as you said, my friend. His fate is inextricably woven to the fates of the Finwëans.”

The door opened softly and a pale Gildor entered, his worried expression turned frightened as he saw the sleeping king.

Thranduil lay on the large bed, his form seemed lonely and small amidst the opulently furnished chamber. The golden hair that Gildor loved so had turned dull and coarse, sapped of the energy of life. The green eyes were closed in exhaustion, highlighting the dark hollows beneath them. The drawn face, the haggard frame and the shallow breathing all spoke of what it had cost the king to save his friend’s life.

Gildor met Thalion’s steady gaze in rising horror and whispered, “I am sorry. The Noldor bring only harm to their friends.”

Thalion offered a wan smile and said softly, “I have tried telling him that countless number of times. When has he ever listened to sense?”

“Is he-?” Gildor began frightened.

“He will recover, I swear to see him recovered before the prince returns,” Thalion said determinedly, “We should have seen through his ruse of hiding his weakness.”

Gildor nodded and said quietly, “I will sit with him, My Lord”.

“Yes, I am weary,” Thalion said gratefully, “Yet there are matters to be attended to. Please do call me if there is need.”

Thranduil stirred awake slowly and watched Thalion with drowsy, green eyes. He closed them hastily, he was in no condition to listen to his entirely justified ire.

“You were mumbling something about dwarves and the Dorwinion,” Thalion’s amused voice commented, “I did not know that your nightmares involved them.”

“Losing the Dorwinion is anyone’s darkest fear,” Thranduil muttered as he dropped his pretence of being asleep, “What other royal fear did you hear of, sitting as you have been by my bed, waiting to usurp me?”

“I shall not tell you,” Thalion said as he combed his fingers through his charge’s hair, “You are confined here until I think you are fit to be released.”

“Someone needs to rule,” Thranduil pointed out, “And neither Gildor nor you are much good at it.”

“Glorfindel has sent word. He shall come,” Thalion informed him solicitously, “He knows to rule, of course. I would have asked for Erestor’s presence, but I fear that he might hatch some deviously brilliant scheme to free you from my care.”

Thranduil shot him a glower; he certainly had no wish to face Glorfindel’s wrath regarding his latest recklessness. Thalion nodded to Gildor, who had stood aside, staring into the fire. As the door closed behind the healer, Gildor turned to face his friend.

“How dare you?” he hissed, “How dare you save me again? As if once was not enough to wreck your life?”

“Would you rather I left you a prisoner?” Thranduil asked wryly, “I could not have done anything else. It is my fault that you were there in the first place.”

“Is your realm less important?” Gildor snarled, “We are warriors, used to accepting our fates. How dare you risk your life like this? If you had fallen, they would have taken the forest! The women, the children and then Lórien…You are the last stopgap between Sauron and the west, Thranduil! How dare you throw away yourself like that?”

“I had my reasons,” Thranduil said weakly before the sudden nausea seized him. He clutched the post of his bed as he tried to rise.

Gildor gripped him about the shoulders and helped him into a sitting position against the head of the bed. The cold body that he held frightened Gildor and he suppressed the fresh wave of anger that swept through him.

“I will not be in your debt again, Thranduil, not at the cost of your life,” he hissed in fury.

“I need payment for that,” Thranduil laughed, his voice bitter and edged with pain, “If you would, please keep me alive.”

Gildor took his hands off Thranduil and stared into the resigned green eyes. They held none of their usual confidence and recklessness. 

“Ernil-nîn,” Gildor said in a raspy tone, overcome by Thranduil’s words, “This is not a time for such rash courses.”

“I need to live, to be the ‘stopgap’ between Sauron and the elven realms to the west,” Thranduil said with biting scorn, “For that I have not the energy or the will. Keep me alive, Lord Gildor. I did not save you because of your importance to elvendom, I did it for what you mean to me,” he spat bitterly, “And since all that you care for is my relative importance in the major scheme of things, I implore you, find someone to keep me alive if you cannot.”

“You frighten me, Thranduil,” Gildor said earnestly as he helped Thranduil to lean against the head of the bed, easing him against a cushion, “I did not mean to belittle our friendship. I merely meant that you mean more to me than my life or captivity.”

“I cannot think properly now,” Thranduil murmured wearily, “Do what you will, Gildor. Just keep me alive. I am yet needed, I fear, though I would love to find a measure of peace. I have reached my limit.”

“You are overwrought, try to rest,” Gildor said soothingly, though he feared that his friend spoke the truth, “I will watch over you.”

“I have begged once before in my life; I begged my father not to rush into Sauron’s lair, but he did not heed me. Now I beg you,” a bony, weak hand snaked around Gildor’s wrist, “Bind with me, if you would have me. I no longer have joy in life; it is now merely a path to fulfill my vow to those of your house.”

“Thranduil,” Gildor said gently, smoothing the knuckles of his friend’s hand, “Please.”

“Save me, own me, give me a reason to live.”

Those words spoken with a fervor characteristic of their youth stirred Gildor as nothing else ever had. How long had he wanted this? Almost as long as Elrond had wanted Erestor. But this was not how he had ever dreamt of their union. 

“Even Elrond had better dreams of blissful union,” Thranduil whispered, “Life throws the worst at us, and we must take it with grace.”

He closed his eyes as a tentative hand crept to caress his high cheekbone. As the fingers trailed down his cheek, he leant back and languidly exhaled. 

“I doubt if you can bear the pain,” Gildor said in a voice broken by emotion, “It is not something you are used to.”

“I will take my chances at that,” Thranduil laughed quietly, “I have never feared to do anything in my bedchamber, and I doubt that your imagination would surpass my past experiences.”

“Is that a challenge, Ernil-nîn?” Gildor smiled as he trailed his fingers through his friend’s hair, “I have travelled in many a strange land.”

“I will hold you to the challenge, when I am in better constitution,” Thranduil winced in pain as he tried to reach for Gildor’s jaw, “For now, let it be disgustingly slow and painless. One sided pleasure, I hate the concept.”

“It shall be my pleasure, Ernil-nîn,” Gildor smiled as he kissed the corners of the King’s scowling lips, “Ever my pleasure.”

They started with efficient movements, Thranduil relaxed and willing, Gildor reassuring and careful. It was not about pleasure, or about lust. Gildor knew that he would never forget the detached expression in those emerald eyes as they united.

“Eru hold witness, for I bind to Thranduil Oropherion, in life, death and judgement,” Gildor spoke clearly as they reached their climax.

Thranduil gasped softly as he clenched his hands weakly about Gildor’s forearms, in a futile bid to stay his friend from rolling away from atop him.

Gildor gently disengaged his companion’s fingers and then nestled beside him quietly, wondering where this act would lead them.

“It is a miracle, you know,” Thranduil’s voice was awed, for the first time Gildor had heard it.

Compelled by Thranduil’s tone, he turned to face his friend. The green eyes were lit with fervent passion as Thranduil said quietly, “It is a miracle, this thing they call love.”

“If I were to die, I would die an immensely happy soul,” Gildor whispered as Thranduil slipped into exhausted sleep, Gildor leant over to brush his lips against the bruised cheekbone of the king, “Feyest of the fey folk, indeed, Thranduil Oropherion.”

 

“The Lord and Lady of Lothlórien,” Laiqua whispered to Gimli, who was still glum after the blindfold incident.

He had to suppress his laughter as Gimli looked upon Galadriel and stared openmouthed in awe. Laiqua returned her smile as she came down the stairs and greeted them. 

“Gold fairer than this, never have we hewn from our mines,” Gimli bowed sincerely as she paused before him.

Celeborn appeared at Galadriel’s side, a light scowl on his features as he glared at Gimli. Laiqua wondered once more about the depth of their love. They were as the sun and the moon, Galadriel’s golden splendour matching Celeborn’s silvery aura. 

“My Lord Gimli,” Galadriel replied with a charming curtsey that put into Laiqua’s mind a magnificent court across the sea that he had heard of only in tales, “I pale in comparison with the least of your many masterpieces. But I am flattered by your kind words. You are as skilled with words as are you with your axe.”

Celeborn cleared his throat haughtily, eliciting a fondly exasperated glance from Galadriel. 

 

Thalion frowned as a sharp rap sounded on his doors. Throwing a loose cloak about his bare shoulders, he hurried to the door. The last patrol had come in and the next was scheduled to return only at dawn. What had happened?

“Ernil-nîn?” Thalion began as half-chastisement, but his visitor waved away his disapproval cheerily and walked past him into the chamber, humming a bawdy tune under his breath.

Thranduil did not reply as he settled comfortably on the window ledge, his eyes fixed on the treeline where the first lines of red rose. Thalion smiled reminiscently at the memories of an exuberant Thranduil watching the dawn every morning by his father’ side. Then he saw the faint bruises that had been incurred as Thranduil had toppled to the floor drained of energy.

“You should not be walking now,” Thalion schooled his features into stern anger.

“Watch the dawn with me, Thalion,” the King said quietly, “It has been long since I have watched one.”

“Thranduil,” Thalion moved nearer uncertainly, wondering what to make of the serene determination that shone on his old charge’s face. So like Oropher, yet unlike.

“My dear Thalion,” green eyes that sparkled with newfound happiness gazed into the healer’s eyes, “I would consider myself blessed if you would consent to watch the dawn with me whenever you can.”

Thalion understood suddenly, the reason behind the serenity and the warmth that the King exuded this morning, a sudden constriction rose in his chest and his throat refused to form words as a sharp burning sensation pricked his eyes.

Thranduil smiled softly as the sun rose grandly over the treeline. Thalion thanked the fates as the golden frame of Thranduil Oropherion was silhouetted against the magnificent sunrise.

“You are my sun,” Thalion said sincerely as he moved to press a chaste kiss to the top of the golden hair, “And you are my son.”

The love of a father, and the love of a bonded-mate, Thranduil mused, he had rediscovered them both.

 

He could feel the life slipping out of him. Panicking, he fought to hold on. He could not die. He wanted to live. Strange, all those years in Valinor, he had never learnt to value the joy in life. But after his migration to these harsh lands, he had learnt to live to the fullest each instant of every day.

“Mandos shall not call you now, Olórin,” a familiar voice commanded, “You shall live, for I will it so. Your task must not be left undone.”

 

“I will ride to Greenwood,” Glorfindel said quietly, “But you might be expected to ride with me, because Erestor is most worried about Thranduil.”

“Laiqua and Estel will need us as they near the Gap of Rohan,” Elladan said uneasily, “They are not experienced. Laiqua has never crossed the borders of northern Greenwood and Estel is ravaged by self-doubts. They will need all the aid they can summon. Thranduil too would be pleased if we are riding to his son’s side.”

“What do you say?” Glorfindel sighed as he glanced at a brooding Elrohir. How easy it had been once to bring a smile to those features by merely showing a butterfly!

“He wishes it too,” Elladan shrugged, “We need to help the Company as we can. It is everyone’s burden. Rohan cannot fall. Lothlórien and Greenwood would be further oppressed. And Gondor shall collapse.”

“Call Erestor,” Glorfindel capitulated, as he always had where the twins were concerned, “I shall persuade him.”

Elladan shot his former mentor a brief smile before rushing to find his father. Elrohir did not even give the slightest appearance of having heard the previous conversation as he stared into the fire.

 

“What news of Ada?” Laiqua begged Celeborn as soon as he entered the Silver Tree’s talan, “I need to know if he is well.”

“He is well enough,” Celeborn sighed as he took in the gaunt features of the young prince, “Though he was not very amused by your decisions. There is much to be healed in your relationship when you meet him.”

“I would ride to Greenwood,” Laiqua said firmly, “For I have been worried to death and torn between loyalty and love.”

“I would not let you travel,” Celeborn said firmly, “The paths are beset and Thranduil, I hear, has retreated to the secure reaches of the forest. The river is lost. No courier has come for a long time, except for the ones from Imladris.”

“Then?” Laiqua began.

“Galadriel has spoken with your father, I believe, and with Thalion,” Celeborn said reassuringly, “They are well, as is Gildor.”

 

“Elrohir,” Glorfindel began hesitantly, not knowing how to overcome his traditional reserve in this matter, “Women often act contrary to what they really seek from life. And they always have their reasons. We should never judge them hastily, given that we are blessed with less intuition than they seem to be.”

“I go on this errand to Rohan, to keep Estel alive for the throne of Gondor,” Elrohir chuckled bitterly, “So that he can claim what was mine and sire heirs from a womb haloed by Finwëan immortality.”

“Neither marriage nor motherhood can temper the flames of love, Elrohir,” Glorfindel said sadly as he gazed at the unfinished banner that hung on the wall in the place of honour, “Particularly for those of the blood of Finwë.”

 

Thranduil carefully sneaked out to his stables to meet his old accomplice, the person who had guided him to Gildor that fateful night. The man had lost his son, they had not spoken of it again, but Thranduil knew instinctively.

“You look ill,” the man exclaimed in honest worried concern as he took in Thranduil’s weary features.

“It is of not much consequence,” Thranduil interjected hastily.

“My Lord,” the man bowed, “There is a very disoriented, raving, old man asking for your presence at his sickbed not ten miles away. The dwarves found him in an eagle’s eyrie in Erebor’s vicinity. You must come, my instincts tell me so.”

“I shall come,” Thranduil chanced a wary glance at the guards, “We must be careful though, I am supposed to be confined to the healing halls.”

“Have you ever been tired of being waited upon?”the man asked chuckling as Thranduil cautiously lowered a hood over his features and led an undistinguished mare out.

“Every moment of my life,” Thranduil commented wryly, “Yet, I have more patience than my father had with court protocol. And my son is worse. Perhaps it was the time I spent with my peers in Lindon.”

“I have seen the settlement,” the man said quietly.

“It was no settlement in my youth, it was a city unsurpassed by any other under the rule of Gil-Galad,” Thranduil said petulantly.

“So it is sung of in the dwarven ballads,” the man chuckled, “You are old, Lord Oropherion.”

“I find myself agreeing,” Thranduil rolled his eyes, “Particularly since I am the youngest of the elven rulers.”

“How old is your…” the man trailed off, “Friend that you saved the other night?”

“He is older than me,” Thranduil said smiling at the man’s reluctance to broach the topic, “I suppose I scared you with my actions that night?”

“You are a handsome soul,” the man laughed, “It was a pleasure, My Lord, though I admit I was frightened for your sanity.”

“My friend, Lord Inglorion, he saved me in a similar manner,” Thranduil said quietly, “It is not meant for any other ears, my dear friend, for that would tell the enemy that I am in poor health. At this time I cannot afford to have another fullscale battle in the woods.”

“I promise, word of honour,” the man said seriously, “But, My Lord, you do take too much of liberties with your life and person.”

They had reached a small human hamlet and the man hastily led Thranduil to a hut set on the periphery of the village.

“Many of the villagers are now siding with the Wild men,” the man explained, “It is not very safe for an elf to venture here.”

“Particularly when the said elf is the famed jewel of Greenwood itself!” Thranduil muttered.

 

He stooped to look into the dark hut. A frail form, unclad but for the coverlet that concealed the torso lay limp on the mattress.

Sighing, Thranduil entered and knelt by the limp form. Hazy, blue-grey eyes measured him with a mild twinkle.

“Mithrandir!” Thranduil asked stunned, remembering the last missive that Gildor and Thalion had hidden from him. It had held some news of Mithrandir, some tragic news, since they did not tell him.

“Not frightened enough,” the wizard said weakly, his eyes shining with joy, “I thought it might scare you into Mandos. I am supposed to be there, after all. Did you not know?”

“My counsellors have not seen your doings worthy of my time,” Thranduil chuckled as he smoothed the crinkled brow, “What happened?”

“Lady Varda fought off Mandos for me,” the quiet words nearly achieved the shock that the sight of the wizard had not managed.

Thranduil did not reply, Mithrandir continued weakly, “And it draws closer to the end, my friend. We must win or be doomed.”

* * *

Laiqua held on to Gimli’s heavy mail-clad shoulder to keep himself upright. It had been a massacre. The deaths, the blood and the cold blooded killing.

Had he actually enjoyed those days with the Company? Listening to Mithrandir’s tales under the stars, arguing with Estel, singing for the Halflings, debating with Gimli…Everything had turned tragic all of a sudden. 

They had lost Mithrandir. Now, they had lost Boromir and the Halflings. 

“Frodo and Sam have left for the eastern lands,” Estel said stubbornly, “We must see to the others.”

“How can they survive?” Gimli asked disbelievingly, “And don’t you think---”

“No,” Estel said quietly, fingering the pendant of the Evenstar that ever gave him hope, “We chase the enemy and find our friends.”

 

 

“I see no reason why you should not take the ship,” Erestor’s strident tones made Elrond smile as he ventured into the gardens.

Erestor was arguing passionately with one of their valets who plainly refused to sail, saying that he would not leave their side.

“My Lord,” the determined elf began, “My purpose in life is to serve your house.”

“And you shall serve it well by sailing,” Erestor said calmly.

As the argument continued, Elrond sat down in the shaded arbor and watched his friend’s expressive features. Black eyes shone brightly in the starkly pale face shadowed by the sharp bones. Elrond closed his eyes as the musical tones of his friend’s arguing voice washed over him. He could see himself standing in the council of Lindon, as his cousin’s herald, and listening to Erestor’s brilliant arguments. Nothing seemed to have changed.

“Please,” Erestor’s voice was harsher and yet, struck a deep chord in Elrond’s heart, “My dear friend, you must leave on this ship. I will not have anyone else bound to the doom that might await us at the end. Leave, if you have ever had the least regard for Elrond or me.”

Much had changed, Elrond reflected gloomily. 

“Elrond!” the voice was pleased and filled with warmth as Erestor spotted him in the arbor, “A trying day, I must say. But it is worth the fulfillment that comes with each soul persuaded to sail west.”

“Indeed,” Elrond replied quietly as he made space for his friend beside him, “What news?”

Erestor smiled as he sat down and leant against the stone support of the arbor, “Thranduil recovers. Glorfindel sends excellent news of him. Thalion, Glorfindel and Gildor are fighting on the southern borders. Celeborn is reconsolidating his lands. And Galadriel sends you her regards. Mithrandir, once more resurrected,” Elrond laughed at the term, “Well, the wizard is bound for Rohan. I have high hopes for bringing Théoden to our side. Denethor, though, seems a lost cause. The twins have joined the Rangers and will move to Rohan after clearing out the High Pass. The Company has left Lothlórien.”

“Laiqua,” Elrond asked tentatively, “What news of him?”

“He seems well,” Erestor sighed, his dark eyes blackening further, “I fear that I was right, he is too young to see such large-scale death and destruction.”

“We saw that at a younger age,” Elrond reminded his friend kindly, “It is not anything we can shield the next generation from. We tried to, but the twins took up orc-slaying and errantry regardless of our over-protection.”

“Perhaps we might have carried it too far?” Erestor asked, as if to himself, “Protecting them so ardently from sorrow might not have been the best path to take.”

Elrond pulled his friend’s robe-clad legs into his lap and began stroking them languidly as he mulled over the strategies that they had discussed a thousand times and more.

“Galadriel is worried,” Erestor remarked sleepily as he closed his exhausted eyes, “That in Thranduil’s absence, they might not be able to defend Greenwood, she speaks of travelling across the Anduin and joining forces.”

“It might be necessary, if the attacks mount,” Elrond said thoughtfully, “Neither Glorfindel nor Gildor have Thranduil’s experience in defending the forests. Celeborn did a magnificent defense during Eregion. Maybe he could be persuaded to travel. Galadriel and Haldir can hold together Lothlórien. They did that during the Last Alliance.”

Erestor made a low murmur of general agreement as he slid further down the seat with lax elegance. Elrond smiled tenderly and shifted position so that Erestor’s head rested on his lap and began gently combing through the dark mane he so loved.

Arwen watched them, from her position on the terrace. The smooth ease of their beings, their sincere warmth and love was visible even in this unspectacular situation. A shadow of sadness passed over her beautiful features before she turned away.

A soul fought buoyed by his claim on her. Another fought despising all that she had come to mean. Aragorn and Elrohir…she sighed, For her father’s salvation, she would see that the cause was won. If it took her body and soul to instill hope in the only leader of men, then so it would be.

 

“There is nothing that you could do to mangle up the situation further,” Thranduil summed up grimly as he glared at his self-appointed commanders.

“You could not have done any better,” Glorfindel smiled wryly, “They have wraiths, Ernil-nîn, and frankly, your elves seem to be keen to stay away from the creatures.”

“It is only Glorfindel’s reputation that has kept them at bay,” Gildor noted honestly, not taking to account the scowl that settled on the king’s features.

“What do you propose we do?” Thalion cut in swiftly before Thranduil began another scathing attack on their plans.

“We can keep our defenses raised and hold the perimeters. More than that, we cannot aspire to, with our scarce numbers,” Glorfindel said fairly, his cornflower blue eyes shining with the conviction of experience.

Thranduil glared at him, but then shivered as his mind recalled vivid images of another pair of cornflower blue eyes, eyes that haunted his dreams.

“Ernil-nîn?” Thalion asked concernedly as the king’s glance shifted thoughtfully to the large portrait of Anoriel that hung on the wall.

“All our children and women have been sent away,” Thranduil rose to his feet and walked to the portrait, “Those who remain,” he faced his friends, “They know the full extent of the danger. We have nothing to lose. Mere stone structures that shall but fade with time. Then do not, I beg you, hold to defensive manoeuvres. Fight with all you are, kill as many as you can. And stay alive.”

 

“Mithrandir!” Laiqua exclaimed in disbelief as the wizard unveiled himself to them, “Elbereth be praised!”

“Indeed,” Mithrandir smiled wanly as he embraced the young prince he had inadvertently dragged into this doom, “And may she watch over all who love her.”

Laiqua shifted in the embrace and inhaled deeply, the scent of fresh pine and rich earth, the scent of Greenwood, the scent of Thranduil Oropherion.

“You saw him,” he stepped back, “How is he, Mithrandir? Celeborn refused to tell me much.”

“He is well,” the wizard lied smoothly, “And I am a bearer of his best wishes for your travels. He would have come back safe and victorious. Now, hurry, for we have an errand in Rohan.”

As the prince and Estel went to attend to the horses, Gimli ventured to the wizard’s side and said quietly, “It is wearing him down. Aragorn depends on him too much. And Boromir’s death, along with the massacre by the Anduin has unsettled him.”

“He is young. And not used to massacres,” Mithrandir sighed, “Would that I could spare him more!”

 

“Would you give me one solid reason why I should intercede for your sake with Celeborn and allow you to lead the warriors to Rohan?” Galadriel sighed as she stared at Haldir, “You are required here.”

“I have served Lothlórien all my life,” he replied coolly, “Perhaps now it is time for me to serve the larger causes of elvendom and Middle-Earth.”

“You have never looked upon all of elvendom as kin,” Galadriel said bluntly, “And I find it hard to believe that you might be inspired enough to die for the greater good, for death indeed is what might be assured from this captaincy.”

“I am sure that I will return safely to Lothlórien in order to see you try and fail again to save your cursed house,” he shrugged insolently, “We hate each other, Noldo, let us be done with this.”

“Haldir,” she said quietly, the weight of her blue gaze unsettling him, “I am no fool. There is a deeper motive, I know, and you would be better off in this alliance were you to tell me the truth so that I can persuade him thus.”

“What enlightenment do you need further from me?” he sneered before averting his eyes stubbornly, “You are said to be Wise, after all.”

She bit back a retort and examined his slightly ruffled features. He had become gaunter in the past few months. Strange, she mused thoughtfully, it was most unlike him to volunteer for an expedition so suicidal and away from his beloved woods.

Irrational, that was one quality she had never associated with him before. Then why was he being so stubbornly unreasonable now? 

“You are in love,” she said quietly, her tone slightly wavering in astonishment.

“Indeed, well-spotted,” he managed in his usual aloof tone, his eyes on her golden hair though she attempted to catch his gaze.

“I am not worthy to be your confidante,” she said tentatively, “But I cannot possibly ask Celeborn to dispatch you on this madness merely because you are embroiled in probably a tangled love affair.”

“There was nothing,” he said briskly as he traced a path through the fallen mallorn leaves with his boot, “One sided infatuation, some unanswered letters and an inconsequential, but inevitable conclusion to the mess.”

 

“My Lord,” the woman said curtly as he fumbled with the bizarre lock on the door, “You need to lift and pull.”

“Thank you, My Lady Éowyn,” he smiled, bowing with his usual charm, “And perhaps I might beg the indulgence of being called merely by name? I care not for titles.”

“I care not for titles either,” her steely gaze stirred something unrecognizable in him, “But certainly, if you would call me by name, I would call you Legolas. Do you need help with the lock or may I leave? It is a busy time. I need to attend to my uncle’s care.”

“Please,” he bowed and took her hand to press a chaste kiss to it, “Let me escort you to the Hall, if you would not mind my company,” he wondered why he was acting so strangely. He could not remember the last time he had offered to escort a woman.

 

“I am wondering if there is the least of chances that I might persuade you to retire?” Celeborn asked half-hopelessly.

“Merely reflecting on the fact that, often, friendship is the greatest manifestation of love,” she said thoughtfully as she turned to admire the radiance of his silver hair in the bright moonlight that shone through the leaves of the treetops.

“I have heard that jealousy is the greatest manifestation of love,” he commented amusedly as he opened his arms in invitation.

She smiled and stepped into his embrace, letting the much-loved arms wrap her, holding her safe against the world.

“I would stay like this, in my father’s arms, believing that he would make everything seem wonderful again,” she said quietly, pressing a kiss to his collarbone.

He broached hesitantly, “I have always wanted to ask.”

“I have never been forthcoming about my family,” she smiled, letting him tug her down onto the floor with him, “Particularly about those who did not cross the seas.”

He did not speak as he played with the strands of her hair, unwilling to interrupt and foil a rare moment of closeness.

“My father is a good soul, he did resent that he resembled his mother more than his father. It was understandable. Our kin valued Noldor blood too highly, and he was very obviously part-Vanyarin. My uncle Fingolfin was exceptionally Noldorin in looks, a reason for the wedge between them. But my father loved our family well, even in our madder moments,” she laughed weakly, “After all, he did come with us for the first part of the journey.”

“How could you leave him?” he whispered softly, “When it is very obvious that he loved you deeply and you shared the same regard.”

“Perhaps it was because I loved others more,” she shrugged, “I still think of him. I must have frightfully disappointed him.”

“I do not think he will be disappointed in the courage that you have ever shown, Altáriel,” he pulled her atop him, “If he thinks of you, it will be with pride. The pride that I have whenever I see Thranduil. Or whenever Círdan sees Erestor.” 

Her eyes refused to meet his gaze as she asked softly, “Do you think he still does not hate me?”

He had never come across this aspect of her nature in their long life together, that she had once been a doting father’s only daughter. How often had he callously assumed that she did not understand a parent-child relationship? 

“He might hate you for marrying an uncivilized cave-elf,” he nuzzled her ears, “Other than that, I see no reason why he should ever stop thinking of you. He has taken in our child, for your sake, Galadriel. He loves you.”

 

 

“My Lord,” an aide entered the chamber, “Shall dinner be served?”

Círdan nodded absently before returning to his perusal of the latest letter from Thranduil. As he gazed at the familiar bold script of the king, he drifted into memories.

“Watch over my son,” Vanima implored him, “I leave his care in your hands, should Oropher not be able to raise him.”

Later, he had received another request of the same kind. Someone whom he had never been able to refuse anything.

“My brother and his wife,” Maedhros Fëanorion was unusually hesitant, “They are absolved of their vows. She shall sail.”

“You know it is no unexpected news,” Círdan said concernedly as the exhausted form of his charge slumped into a chair before his desk, “What ails you?”

“I am just weary,” Maedhros waved his hand absently, “Of this, of everything, leave me, old friend. I wanted to discuss something else. A request.”

“Yes,” Círdan waited patiently as he poured wine for them both, “Anything, Maedhros. You know you always can.”

“Macalaurë has managed to conceive a son with his wife,” Maedhros examined the frescoes on Círdan’s windows, “Menelwen, she has taken well to your household. But now that Carnilótë is sailing, we must keep to our oaths.”

“I am no good at caring for newborn babes,” Círdan sighed, “But should you ask me, I will care for the scion.”

“Scion, yes,” Maedhros sighed, “I had not thought of that. He is the next-in-line in the true succession. Not that it would do him any good.”

“What ails you?” Círdan rose to his feet and walked to his friend, gently kneading the tense muscles of Maedhros’ shoulders.

“Nothing,” the proud reply was not entirely unexpected, “Just that the child has arrived at a bad time. What have I to offer the babe? Not even the shelter of a roof. How low has royalty fallen?”

“Gil-Galad and Galadriel would take in the children joyously,” Círdan remarked, “They have offered many a time.”

“I am afraid that my brother will not surrender his children to Findekano’s son. And Artanis, she washed her hands off our family during the episode of Doriath,” Maedhros remarked wryly, his grey eyes lightening, “And as much as I love my kin, I would not let the children grow under the not too light auspices of the past. Let them live here and find a better legacy.”

“So be it. But Galadriel remains your staunchest supporter,” Círdan corrected him quietly, “She is no shallow soul.”

“I am yet to find a woman shallow-hearted,” Maedhros smiled sincerely as he rose to his feet, “I claim no deep knowledge of womankind. But those I have had the honour of knowing, they were deep as the sea, and I respect them.”

“Including Elwing?” Círdan could not resist the urge to remind his friend of the disaster at Sirion.

“Would that she had listened to sense,” Maedhros rolled his eyes, “She was far too enamoured by the jewel. But I would never have known the twins if not for her folly.”

“You have too giving a heart,” Círdan said kindly, “That is the cause of half your troubles.”

“So have you, Círdan,” Maedhros’s mouth twisted in a ghost of a smile, “We are condemned to loving the sword and the sea, and finding our peace in them.”

“Will I see you again soon?”Círdan asked tentatively, his instincts warning him of impending sorrow.

“Not unless you plan to join me in Mandos,” Maedhros murmured, “or the Void, as the fancy takes the Valar.”

 

Círdan sighed as he sat down to a lonely supper, the familiar sounds of the waves crashing on the docks gave him no reassurance this night.

* * *

She watched him smiling at one of the wounded soldiers as he came over to his side. He looked gaunter, and wearier than when they had last met.

“Éowyn,” his voice was coloured by pure worry as he looked over her for injuries, “Are you well?”

“None of us were hurt,” she smiled wanly, “And I am glad that we are safe now.”

“You are a born leader,” he said admiringly as he took in the efficient administration she had raised in so short a time, “Your uncle must be proud of you.”

She smiled more warmly and patted his wrist before returning to her tasks.

“You are spending too much time worrying for her,” Estel remarked as he joined his friend, “It is not wise.”

“She is a brave soul,” Laiqua murmured, “I am reminded of Galadriel whenever I look upon her. What do you think of her?”

“No charm of the White Lady of Rohan shall divert my love from where it is truly placed,” Estel fingered his pendant and smiled wistfully, “The Evenstar holds my heart.”

Laiqua nodded briskly and turned away. He had seen Elrohir’s desperation after the betrayal. As much as he loved Estel, he did not think that his friend deserved happiness blissfully ignorant of the true relationship between Elrohir and Arwen.

“Move the wounded into the inner chambers,” the clear voice of Éowyn rose in the crowded courtyard. 

Laiqua watched in admiration as she managed the Rohirrim with her charismatic leadership. He could see the fond affection and pride that shone on Théoden’s face as he looked on his niece’s activities. 

“She is but a woman, laddie,” Gimli said quietly, pushing his way to Laiqua, “And you have seen how they treat their women.”

“It is not fair,” Laiqua muttered, “She deserves better.”

“Lord Elladan would not appreciate your distraction,” Gimli chuckled, “And Éowyn’s brother too might take offence at strange folk watching her.”

“I would never behave so crudely!” Laiqua said petulantly, “My father taught me better! I merely respect her and wish the best for her.”

 

“My Lord,” Arwen asked quietly as she knocked on the door, “May I come in?”

“The door is open,” he called out, though his voice was cool and merely polite.

She took a deep breath and entered, he was seated at his desk, engrossed in his correspondence. She paused for a moment taking in the fragile splendour of his slender robe-clad figure against the dawn light. He had not tied the sash of his dressing robe, it parted to reveal his white skin unblemished by time. His hair was gathered into a messy morning braid to keep it out of its hair while he worked.

His deep black eyes measured her curiously as he spoke, “Elrond has not woken yet. Is it anything of import?”

“I wished to obtain your counsel,” she was thrown back into time when she had first come to Lothlórien, “I did not wish to come later when you would be busy with matters.”

“I am at your disposal,” he said gravely as he rose to greet her and waved her to take a seat across him, “Though I must warn you that my mind is still foggy.”

She smiled tremulously and took the proffered seat, nestling her hands uncomfortably in her lap as she wondered how to start her conversation.

“Celebrían once sat before me, as you do now,” he said thoughtfully as he interwined his fingers and nested his aristocratic chin on them.

“You have seen a lot come to pass,” she said quietly.

“Celeborn and Círdan have seen more,” he shrugged, “As have many of my peers. It seems to be our destiny to watch and be helpless.”

“I wish to speak of Elrohir,” she began tentatively. 

They had never spoken after her callous rejection of Elrohir. It was only Elrond’s noble nature that prevented an outright accusation from Erestor, she knew. She had never realized that Erestor loved his children so deeply as was evinced from his quiet anger over her actions.

“Please, continue this conversation with Elrond, who is a kinder judge than I am,” he said simply, “I cannot promise to remain calm if you continue.”

“I chose Estel over Elrohir,” she said quietly, pretending not to see the flash of fire in his eyes, “I had my reasons. We must win. Estel must lead the men to victory. It is the age of men, after all. Only possession of the Evenstar will inspire him to such heights.”

“It is a noble cause and excellent diplomacy,” he inclined his head sardonically, “Obviously you are not as ignorant of court intrigues as I had supposed you to be.”

“And there is a personal reason,” her voice broke ever so slightly.

He raised an eyebrow and leant back in his chair, the soft dawnrays caressing his aquiline features.

“It is the legacy that Elrohir has. Beren’s lineage is in my blood too. I lack Galadriel’s courage to face the world. Knowing my father’s doom, I cannot expect a lesser one,” the morning wind felt cold against her moist cheeks, “I am a coward and can only choose the easier way out of suffering. But I cannot let Elrohir choose the same. He deserves better. He shall be judged lightly if we choose differently.”

“If you had stayed true to him, he would have followed you into a mortal life,” Erestor whispered horror-stricken as he grasped the true extent of her actions, “You killed his love to save his life.”

“Only revenge could spur him to live life to the fullest and to forget me. I had to be callous enough,” she murmured as she stared at her hands, “I would never have wished a mortal life with all its horrors upon him. He is not a coward. He is your son and Galadriel’s grandson. He will meet the fate with honour and courage. I cannot tear him away from his convictions merely because I could not conquer my fear.”

 

“Thranduil,” Gildor crept into the King’s chamber at the break of dawn, “I am leaving with the warriors.”

“I wish you all joy,” Thranduil grumbled as he tossed restlessly under the covers, “Return in one piece, if you will. I hate wearing black mourning robes.”

“You are in excellent spirits this day,” Gildor chuckled fondly, too used to his friend’s macabre sense of humour to take offense at it, “I wonder if I can tell you that Thalion seems intent to keep you confined for another month at least?”

“You could have kept the news to yourself and spared me the torment,” Thranduil said resentfully opening one eye in catlike fashion and staring at his armoured friend, “Go now and leave me be.”

“I hoped you would care for the good news I bear. Seeing that you are in so irascible a mood, I shall leave,” Gildor said amusedly.

“I demand the news, as a King,” Thranduil sat up in bed and peered sleepily at Gildor.

“A bedridden King is merely a barking one, not a biting one,” Gildor said laughing at the tousled picture of golden magnificence that Thranduil made.

“Tell me,” Thranduil stretched felinely and pushed his hair out of his eyes, looking for a moment far younger and naiver than his actual age.

“You are most persuasive when you take the time to try,” Gildor moved closer and kissed the golden hair fondly, “But you are not getting the news, you unpredictable rascal.”

“Rascal?” Thranduil raised his eyebrows, “Very well,” he sighed in exasperation noting the twinkle in his friend’s eyes, “What might entice you to share the news?”

“Many things, on and within your wonderful body,” Gildor chuckled, watching the glimmer of desire sparkle in the emerald eyes, “But for now, I shall settle for mere courtesy. At least wishing a good day.”

“I shall be well-behaved and polite,” Thranduil rolled his eyes, “Tell me.”

“Galadriel shall come soon,” Gildor smiled, “she wishes to see her favourite elf on this side of the Anduin.”

“I love her,” Thranduil said sincerely, rising to his knees, so that he was at face-level with the standing form of his friend.

He entwined his hands about Gildor’s armoured waist, and pulled him closer. 

“Distraction given elven form,” Gildor murmured, “that is what you are, Ernil-nîn.”

“I am more desirable when I am awake,” Thranduil laughed, his voice still retaining the huskiness of sleep, “Be that as it may, off with you to defend the King’s lands. We would not want to hinder your duties.” 

 

She rushed to her uncle’s side and unsheathed her sword, flinging herself between the creature and her uncle’s prone body.

“Fall back or you shall know the wrath of the King,” the wraith laughed coldly, “Fall back.”

“I shall not!” She said hoarsely, raising her sword in defiance.

“No man can ever stand between my prey and I and hope to win,” The wraith laughed again and uncovered its mace.

“But I am no man,” she laughed recklessly, “You are indeed short sighted if you cannot even identify the true nature of your opponent, creature of darkness.”

“You are but a vessel who carries the seed of men,” the wraith laughed, “What have I to fear from you other than your screams of pain?”

“He who talks the most loses the most,” she said quietly, the calm focus of determined nonchalance resting serenely upon her beautiful features, “Prepare now to fight the wrath of a grieving daughter. I shall avenge my uncle.”

“Éowyn!” Laiqua shouted as he tried to break through the melee to her side, “NO!”

The first blow from the mace descended on her cruelly, breaking apart the shield she had raised to protect herself. But she did not flinch, her pale features set in determination. She reminded him once more of Galadriel, proud and fey. Her sword chopped off the head of the wraith’s mount, eliciting a horrifying scream from the dying beast.

“Laddie,” Gimli threw his ponderous weight between Laiqua and a rampaging orc, “Have a care!”

They watched in horror as the mace descended again, bringing her to her knees, heaving pathetically in mute defence before her uncle’s dying form. But the fire that shone in her eyes was unabated as she tried to lift her sword again. Many of the Rohirrim were shouting, fear rising in their eyes. If it had been any enemy but the wraith, they would have rushed to her side. Their beloved lady.

“Elbereth!” Laiqua shouted as he tried desperately to cut his way through a sea of fighting men and orcs to reach her.

Suddenly the wraith crumpled, its cloak caught in the limbs of the dead mount. She rose to her feet by pure will and plunged her sword into the wraith’s face, her eyes cold and determined.

An unearthly scream resounded across the battlefield as the wraith tried to break its opponent, to force and warp her mind. But she remained resolute, her eyes shining with the wrath of the righteous. 

And the Witch King of Angmar was vanquished by a woman. 

 

“For now, we have won,” Estel whispered, “Now we need to reconvene.”

“As you command, My Lord,” Imrahil said quietly, “We shall make our camp outside the city walls.”

 

“Uncle,” Éowyn crawled to his side, unmindful of the pain that seared through her limbs, “Please, uncle.”

“Éowyn,” he rasped, his windpipe clearly injured and irreparable, “My child,” a shaking hand cupped her neck and pulled her closer, “My dear, dear child.”

She shook her head and cupped his much-loved features imploring him mutely to stay on. He was all that she had. All that she loved. 

“I am past the living,” he said with infinite sadness in his eyes, “I am proud of you, my child. You are our hope. You are the hope to this torn-apart world.”

“Lord Aragorn is hope,” she corrected him absently, mainly because she had always disagreed with him over anything and everything. 

“What hope does a man offer when he does not dare to hope even for himself?” he laughed sadly, “No, my child, you shall be the first bloom of the new era. Much loved shall you be. And your name shall reverberate in the halls of memory until the world passes.”

“I am but a woman, uncle,” she smiled wanly, “A woman bound to obey her brother.”

“A woman who shall choose to make the best of what she is offered, a woman who shall win even from the limits imposed on her by lesser men. Deeply loved shall you be, Éowyn, my dear child.”

 

“Laiqua,” Estel said wearily as he slumped beside his desperate friend, “The woman is foolish. Her brother says that she deserves to die for her folly. I can guarantee only to save two of the three suffering souls. Faramir of Gondor, the only person that the city trusts. He must be saved. Merry, our companion and valiant soul who deserves better than loss and sorrow. He is too young. And the woman.”

“Save the woman,” Laiqua hissed, “And I shall be ever indebted to you, Estel. I abandon my people to travel by your side since you need me.”

“I cannot let Faramir or Merry die,” Estel said simply, “Their passing would cause too deep a grief in the hearts of many. The woman, she is too far gone in the lands of the shadow, perhaps her purpose in life was to pave the way to our success. Éomer understands.”

“The hands of a healer, and this is how you talk?” Laiqua snarled, “If you cannot heal her, then do not touch her with those famed hands. I will see to her myself.”

 

“Laddie,” Gimli asked in increasing apprehension as he watched his friend’s actions.

Laiqua had brought in the unconscious, feverish woman and laid her on a narrow pallet. He was now earnestly talking with Elrohir.

“Do something,” he begged.

“If only Ada Elrond had been here,” Elrohir said sadly, “I can do nothing for wraith poisoning, Laiqua. Anything I try might ultimately kill her. I cannot risk it.”

“Elladan?” Laiqua asked imploringly, “Is he still with Imrahil?”

“He will not help you even if he can,” Elrohir said bluntly, his usually sensitive, diplomatic manner had given away to harsh bluntness after Arwen.

“Why, what mean you?” Laiqua asked incredulously, “He has no grievance with me.”

“He has been made to vow by Estel that he will not help you in this cause,” Elrohir shrugged as he took in the weakly heaving form on the pallet, “She is a much admired soul, Laiqua. But not many will dare to help her. Her uncle is dead. Her closest followers at the court are dead. Éomer has issued an indirect warning that she is not to be aided. And Estel too fears her influence.”

“Elladan agreed to the vow?” Laiqua asked stunned, his face showing his shock at this unexpected betrayal.

“He thinks she might be a threat to your relationship,” Elrohir said pensively, “And we are at Estel’s disposal until the war ends. After all, he is likely to be our ‘brother-by-law’ should things turn out well. We need to humour Estel, he is our best chance at defeating the enemy.”

“Fine,” Laiqua said angrily, “Fine, out with you and tell your brothers that I am ever indebted. To kill a soul merely because you are jealous of her. I hope never to say this again, but Estel is a coward.”

“Think you I did not notice?” Elrohir laughed hollowly before exiting the tent.

“Laddie,” Gimli ventured to the pallet and rested his palm on the sweating forehead, “We seem to be losing her.”

“What am I to do, Gimli?” Laiqua asked desperately, “What am I to do? Mithrandir is nowhere to be found and I know nothing of healing.”

They settled for an uneasy watch by her side, taking turns to mop her burning forehead with a damp cloth, she murmured deliriously. Laiqua patted her wrist numbly, wondering about the rosiness of her lips, of the fullness of her form, of the deceptive strength of her sword hand, of the fire in her eyes and many more things that he had never before taken the time to appreciate. How had he never noticed the zeal of her soul? Would her fire be lost to the world before it had even a single chance to burn?

“Prince?” Mithrandir hurried in, “Elrohir found me and told me to come here. Why is she not in the healing halls?”

“Estel thinks that he can spare energy enough only for two, and he has decided that the lucky two does not include this poor soul,” Gimli said quietly, noting that Laiqua was still staring at the form on the pallet, worried as if he took his eyes off her, she might leave them.

“I will do my best, Elbereth save her,” Mithrandir said fervently as he set to work.

 

“I am worried that we might lose the grace of Ulmo,” Círdan murmured quietly as he stood on the docks, bidding yet another ship farewell.

“We have sent across most of our people. Only those who have vowed to see the lands rid of evil remain. I trust that their fate is not in our hands,” his second said reassuringly, “My Lord, please, you must rest. We are worried for you. Has the sea been calling you relentlessly?”

“A conflict of calls and vows,” Círdan smiled sourly before turning to his castle. 

His lonely castle. There once had been cavalry and armies in his courtyard. Of fey Noldorin princes, of their proud Sindarin counterparts, of the armies of the West. 

 

 

Elrond scaled the hilly rise and came upon his friend, standing near a boulder, looking over the valley. As he took in Erestor’s brooding features, he sighed and walked to his side, inhaling the fresh evening air.

“What has you in such deep thoughts?” he asked eventually, after they stood in silence for a long time.

“I had a letter from Galadriel,” Erestor said quietly, his eyes on the almost deserted valley beneath them, “Most of Lothlórien is emptied. Only those who have sworn not to sail stay now.”

“Our time wanes,” Elrond said pragmatically, “There is not much we can accomplish in the world of men.”

“We did not belong to the Time of the Elves too, we were born at the end of the First Age. We belong to a time of uncertainties with nothing to call our own,” Erestor said with wistful sadness.

Elrond did not reply, there was no need to. He had often felt the same himself. That they belonged to neither the days of elven splendour or the days of the rise of men. They were souls trying to hold together what they fought for in a time of loss.

“I had once believed that this...” Erestor waved his elegantly robe-encased hands over the valley, “that this place would be our home. That we would be happy and content here. It was not to be. I had believed that our children would give us joy. It is not to be. I had hoped that one day we would be able to sail fearlessly and live in peace. It is not to be. What then did we gain by all our losses?”

“I know what I have gained,” Elrond said simply as he placed his hand on the cool boulder. 

He remembered the place. They had been lazing about here when Glorfindel had come to summon them to the King.

(The Song of Sunset: Chapter 12 – The Return to Lindon)

“I remember watching you supervise the construction of a settlement, filling those weary souls of Eregion with hope. I remember those days with reverence. Every place from Mordor to Mithlond holds memories for me. I regret much, but I would live again the same way if I am given a choice,” he said quietly.

“Memories and regrets have cost our race much. Haldir of Lothlórien leaves the forests for the first time in his life to lay his service at the feet of Théoden of Rohan. Galadriel assumes that he is weary of unrequited longing,” Erestor said sadly, “He and I are no friends. But I wish he changes his mind.”

“Was it her?” Elrond asked hesitantly, his traditional reserve shattered by the news that the stoic Marchwarden was a victim of desperate longing, as Elrond himself had been once.

“Not Celebrían,” Erestor smiled gauntly, “I feel sure of it. They were excellent friends and nothing could drive him to hide his love had that been the case.”

“You know who it is,” Elrond stated bluntly, seeing the horror rise in his friend’s eyes, “Tell me, my dear ‘Restor.”

**“Letters, Galadriel mentioned,” Erestor said horrified, “Letters of devotion, one-sided. Gildor has received letters of the sort. Smelling of mallorn blossoms. We did not know.”

They stood in silence, wondering about the turn of events. Gildor had never known, of course. Haldir was too proud to ever approach a Noldo. 

“I understand Arwen,” Erestor said with a deep sigh as he watched the western skies, “In the end it all comes down to loving a person enough to save him or her.”

“In the end there is no choice, if you have truly loved,” Elrond said quietly, “Haldir has no other choice but to leave, if he is to ever know peace. Arwen had no choice but to leave our son so that he could live for what he believed in.”

“Love would be easier if we had no pride to defend,” Erestor replied sarcastically, but he smiled as Elrond’s hands took his own, the red sunrays casting dark shadows on their entwined fingers as they watched the sunset.

* * *

“Why did you refuse to heal her?” Mithrandir hissed as he stormed into the luxurious tent where Estel was discussing matters with the leaders.

“She was warped by the enemy,” Éomer said without hesitation, “And I asked Aragorn to not attempt to heal her. We need him for the battles to come, Gandalf. What if some peril had happened to him when he tried to heal her?”

“Théoden would have never let this happen,” Mithrandir snarled as he glared furiously at a quiet Estel.

“The last I looked, Théoden and not Aragorn was King of Rohan,” Estel quoted the late leader’s words wryly, “And the last I looked, he was dead. What he would have done in such circumstances is not of any significance.”

“Estel”. Mithrandir said incredulously, “This is most unlike you. You bear a most unreasonable grudge towards the princess of Rohan.”

“And Laiqua bears a most unreasonable regard for the woman,” Estel replied in Sindarin, meeting the Maia’s eyes squarely.

Mithrandir scowled and then said sharply, “She will live. I hope that she never forgives you.”

“She shall be sent home,” Éomer said gravely, “Enough disobedience has she shown.”

“She will stay,” the wizard said calmly, looking at the men with proud derision in his eyes, “And she shall be my charge from this day.”

 

“Orophin returns,” Celeborn said quietly, “Alone.”

“What can we say? Nothing,” Galadriel replied pensively as she continued with the preparations for their journey.

“Is that all we can do?” Celeborn said tiredly, “To see him grieve alone and not do anything other than to watch?”

“Grief is a lonely affair,” she looked up from her packing, “A very lonely affair.”

He nearly recoiled at the power of her gaze. There was immeasurable loss and the wisdom that rises only from loss in her blue eyes. He wished that he had been there from the beginning, that he had protected her from all that had happened to her family.

“Celeborn,” she straightened and walked towards him, a serene smile settling on her aristocratic features, “What was the first thing that you noticed in me?”

“Your courage to face your battles alone,” he said without hesitation, “Your unflinching courage.”

She nodded gravely and resumed her preparations. He exhaled and leant back against the wall, his thoughts unvoiced and unclear.

“Have you ever lacked courage?” he asked quietly.

“My uncle Fëanor was said to be the bravest of the Eldar. There have been occasions when I have seen him want for courage,” she said simply.

“Somehow, Altáriel, I think that you have conquered more than he had,” he sighed wearily as he sat down on the window seat.

“It varies,” she came over to his side, “This concept called courage. Each of us has our own measure of it. If my courage lies in my unwillingness to accept defeat, yours lies in your optimism to face the world. Elrond’s courage is his unfaltering determination never to relinquish his love. Courage is a many-hued word.”

He did not reply as he fingered the material of his rich robes, his eyes darkening in concentration as he mused upon her words.

“I cannot be interrupted again,” she said petulantly, affecting a high simpering tone that invariably made him laugh.

She succeeded as he threw back his head and chortled at her tones, she continued for good measure, “If you do not keep your peace and let me pack, then be assured I might go to Greenwood alone.”

“No!” he laughed, “I haven’t seen my kin for decades. My favourite King.”

“Then quit philosophizing and make yourself useful,” she threw a bundle of robes at him.

He ducked neatly and chuckled as it flew out of the window and fell onto the mallorn-blossom covered ground. The passers-by looked up and smiled indulgently before proceeding with their errands. Celeborn smiled as he heard their whispered words of fond amusement.

“Ours is certainly the relationship that has ever stayed the talk of the city, be it Doriath, Sirion, Eregion, Lindon or Lothlórien,” he remarked.

“All credit to you,” she smiled, “What can I say? You are a very attractive person. Everyone remains envious of me as they had been then in Doriath.”

“They did have crude jokes about the foreign invader conquering and carrying off the native beauty of Doriath. But the said beauty was Lúthien,” Celeborn raised his eyebrows defensively.

“The Noldor do not conquer and carry off,” she sniffed disdainfully, “I thought it was a Sindar trait. Eöl illustrated it.”

“Eöl was mad,” Celeborn said equitably, “But I have heard that Fingon the Valiant carried off many young elves from the lands he succoured in war. What answer can you give for that, beloved cousin of the late King?”

“Relief,” she said ironically, her relaxed features sharpening subtly, “What else can I feel?”

“You don’t defend him?” Celeborn stared in shock at the unprecedented fury in her eyes.

“I see no reason to defend the wrongs of my kin, however much I might have loved them,” she said cryptically.

“Altáriel,” he rose to his feet and approached her slowly, realization dawning in his eyes. 

Little clues, he had seen them before, but he had never found the will to ask her directly. He knew what she was cold-bloodedly capable of. He knew the power of her deceptions. It would always be thus. She had been through too much to ever tell him all of it. 

“Fingon did not----,” he trailed away, “Fingon hurt you?”

“The correct term would be rape,” she said derisively as she strode to the other side of the room and folded her arms across her bosom in a defensive stance.

Celeborn shook his head, trying to prevent the sudden contraction of his throat muscles as her words sunk in.

“And the rest of them,” he spat out furiously, “Your brothers and cousins!”

“They did not know,” she said in a low, dead voice, “My uncle might have known, for he never spoke to my cousin after that. Maedhros knew, for I told him, and he took me to Himring with him. He helped me forget it. Then I travelled to Nargothrond. Maglor might have known, for he and I shared a bond of deepest affection.”

“Altáriel,” he shook his head horrified and tentatively reached to soothe her hair, “I had no idea.”

“Never mind,” she shrugged off his hand, “It was all in the past. He is dead.”

Something about the cold, satisfied manner in which she spoke the last few words sent shivers down his spine. He remembered a hunting party that he had led out of Doriath. He remembered her riding off alone into the night. She had taken no guard or spare horse. She had returned by mid noon the next day, her features troubled and almost frightened. He had asked her, but she had offered no replies. 

But he remembered the scent of men that clung to her mare and to her clothes. She had gone to a human town. 

“You met Uldor the accursed,” he said slowly, willing her to deny it and walk out in dudgeon.

“Let us just say that I have far more reasons to fear the wrath of the Valar than the general ones,” she laughed coldly, “Yes, Celeborn, I met Uldor, the accursed. I bartered my cousin Aredhel’s jewels, which had come to me by right of succession. I made him an offer he could not refuse. He agreed to delay Maedhros’s armies so that Fingon would be alone in the field. He did his side of the deal well. Though I had not known that he had deals with the enemy too. I did not know that he would turn against my cousins. It cost them grievously. But Maedhros had only himself to blame, for trusting the Southerners.”

“And Fingon died,” Celeborn said in a whisper.

“Yes,” she said harshly, “He died in the flames. As I had ensured he would. There was nobody to aid him and his armies were vanquished. Turgon arrived too late and Maedhros, only after him. It was all that Maedhros could do to engage the enemy long enough to let Turgon flee to safety. I heard later that they recovered only his helm.”

There was utter silence in the room. He could still feel the wrath of her icy words reverberate in the chamber. He had assumed that he knew her, as well as one soul could know another. He was wrong. He would probably never understand what she was.

“You fell in love with a cold-blooded kinslayer, yes,” she said calmly, though her fingers were shaking as she straightened the folds of her gown.

“I have killed,” he gulped as he sank down onto the couch in a bid to regain his composure, his knees had suddenly refused to support him, “For our love.”

“I did not kill for love,” she said quietly, “I killed for hatred, for revenge.”

He stared at the cold lifeless eyes that gazed into the distance. Her self-hatred was as much as part of her as was her courage and determination.

“You were young,” he said calmly.

“I was young, yes, and I managed to destroy so many elven lives of the Noldorin armies with my quest for revenge,” she laughed hollowly, “If I had known then that I would be sowing the seeds of my own doom…”

“We will prevail,” he said automatically, as he rose to his feet and strode over to her.

She flinched and turned her head aside, almost as if she expected pity or disgust in his gaze. He shook his head, he would never understand how he could always condone her actions, even the vilest of them.

“I have slain more elves than my cousins,” she said almost conversationally, defiantly refusing to meet his gaze.

“You have saved more souls than anyone else,” he said quietly, “The greater good, that is what you have always chosen to fight for. That you made one miscalculation was unfortunate. You could not have known of Uldor’s double allegiance.”

“I should not have planned the murder of my own cousin,” she said briskly.

“He should not have touched you at all,” he exclaimed in fervent anger, “He dared too much!”

“He was drunk,” she said flatly.

“That gives him no excuse,” Celeborn said quietly, “Anyway you have more than redeemed yourself with your succour of his only son. Gil-Galad would not have held Lindon if not for your wisdom.”

“Gil-Galad,” she laughed stricken, “My dear Silver Tree, do you think I did it for penance? I did it to further my own interests. There was nobody else to hold our family together. Elrond and Erestor mistrusted me. And I foresaw his death, and I sent him to Mordor happily.”

“No, you did not,” Celeborn said evenly, “You grieved for him.”

“If you wish to believe so, I shall not oppose it,” she said dismissively, “I hated Fingon, I hated his son. Gil-Galad was innocent, yes, but I was reminded of his sire too much. And his treatment of Erestor made me disgusted.”

“Erestor?” Celeborn gripped his robes tightly, his knuckles white.

“I promised Maglor that I would watch over his son,” she said quietly, “Of course, I had to. I tried to prevent Gil-Galad bonding with him. I did not want Erestor to know half of the pain that I knew he would endure as Gil-Galad’s mate. Everything went wrong, as always.”

Celeborn stopped the sudden wave of righteous anger as he realized the full extent of her subtle manoeuvring through the centuries. It was not in him to condemn her, he reminded himself. She had probably recriminated herself thrice over through the Ages.

“If you tell me that you hate me, I shall not be amazed,” she said in a voice that warned him not to look upon her with pity, “I do not think that you can hate me with half the intensity as I hate myself.”

“I can only tell you that I cannot imagine a life without your presence by my side,” he sighed wearily, “I am used to being deceived and manoeuvred by you in the course of our lives together. As long as you love me, I care not what you commit. Damn it all, Altáriel, I cannot live without you when you are the very essence of the air I breathe.”

“You do not pity me?” she asked stunned as she sank down to the couch beside him.

“At this point,” he said wryly, “I should pity myself.”

 

“Awake?” a worried voice broke into her misty consciousness.

She opened her eyes blearily to see a handsome man staring at her, his hands soothing her forehead. She frowned as she tried to identify this stranger. She had seen someone vaguely resembling him before.

“Boromir?” she mumbled.

“His brother, My Lady Éowyn,” the man smiled, it was a warm, soothing smile.

She nodded and slid into her dreams again leaving him to contemplate in silence.

 

“Your family owes us all a banquet,” Laiqua muttered as he looked upon the Black Gates of Mordor.

“You can always ask Ada Erestor for one if we leave here alive,” Elrohir chuckled, “I am sure that he will be pleased to arrange one.”

“He will probably ask us to tell the tales of the breaching of the gates. He would then compare them to his own exploits alongside my father,” Laiqua said sardonically, trying to quell the rising inferno of fear that rose within his heart.

“Laiqua,” Elrohir said quietly, placing his hand over Laiqua’s, “We fight together. As they once did.”

“That is the only thing which gives me hope and courage, ‘Ro,” Laiqua said exhaustedly.

“This is the most foolish gambit I have ever embarked on, laddies,” Gimli commented sarcastically.

“Truer words, I have not heard,” Elrohir agreed completely, watching the pendant of the Evenstar shine resplendently from over the tunic of the uncrowned leader of men.

* * *

“Hail, Celeborn!” Glorfindel’s voice was welcoming despite the dark vicinity of the woods that the troops from Lórien had moored their boats to.

“Glorfindel,” Celeborn laughed, his voice mellifluous and assured despite the situation, he helped Galadriel disembark and then walked over to embrace his friend.

“You look well, the both of you,” Glorfindel remarked, his face sobering as he took in the number of archers that had come, “So few, we are outnumbered.”

“What plan?” Celeborn asked quietly.

“We attack from this side, I have thirty. You have brought over sixty. And Gildor takes the northern flanks. Thalion bears down from the north-west. I have no other plan,” Glorfindel shrugged, “this is not the most inspiring of places to hatch a plan.”

“We shall make the best of it,” Celeborn sighed, “Losing Haldir has been a hard blow. His experience in defending woodlands was unparalleled.”

“Thranduil,” Galadriel ventured to their side, “what of him?”

“He is not in good health, he had a relapse the last week. He was too weak that he did not even protest when Thalion transferred him to the healing chambers from the royal suite,” Glorfindel said sadly, “The woods are draining him, and he is worried. His son, the future, he is nearing a total nervous breakdown.”

“We will cleanse Dol-Guldur and then travel to him,” Celeborn said crisply, “Send the scouts to Gildor and Thalion. We are ready.”

 

She felt the tendrils of malice in the wind. Trying to enter their souls, to warp them into evil. She could sense the ancient evil that had begun with Morgoth in the days of the Eldar.

“We shall defy thee, we shall deny thee, we shall defeat thee,” she murmured in determination.

Glorfindel watched her features grow sharper in the cold light. He had never seen her thus, except on the day of the kinslayings of Alqualondë. The fire of her father’s house seemed to burn her from within, her blue eyes were filled with righteous wrath and resolve. 

There was an unearthly scream from within the fortress and she gasped. He rushed to her side to hold her, but she kept her feet by pure will and grit her teeth. The sound of falling stones made him turn to the fortress. He shouted as the construction crumbled before their eyes, vanquished by the will of the granddaughter of Finwë.

She faltered and a silver-maned form rushed to her side, to hold her in his strong arms. Glorfindel smiled in wistful happiness as he watched their lips meet. Celeborn’s hands clenched her tightly about the waist as paroxysms of relief and shock coursed through her body. Glorfindel could hear only her faint whispering.

“We prevailed, My Silver Tree, as you said we would.”

 

Estel fingered his pendant pensively as he looked over the desolate lands they had conquered. Lands where blood of many a race had flowed that day. He could almost imagine Elrond and Thranduil staring over the lands from the same spot where he stood now. 

"Gil-galad was an Elven-king.  
Of him the harpers sadly sing:  
the last whose realm was fair and free  
between the Mountains and the Sea.”  
"His sword was long, his lance was keen,   
his shining helm afar was seen;   
the countless stars of heaven's field   
were mirrored in his silver shield."  
"But long ago he rode away,   
and where he dwelleth none can say;   
for into darkness fell his star   
in Mordor where the shadows are.”

 

Laiqua Thranduillion’s clear voice rose high and proud in the hot night. Many of the warriors were staring at the young prince in awe, momentarily forgoing their tasks to listen to his rendition of what was undoubtedly elvenkind’s greatest lament since the Nolodante.

Estel sighed as he remembered his argument with the prince before the battle. He had refused to treat Éowyn. Why had he done it? He was no callous soul. He tried to hold true to the vows of healing even when he was risking his own life to uphold them.

“You fear her,” Gimli’s deep voice broke in on his thoughts.

“As much as I would like to ask you how you divined my thoughts, I shall resist,” Estel replied dryly, his spirits unbalanced and jovial after their win, “Yes, I fear the lady. She is too charismatic, reminds me of Galadriel.”

“There you commit a folly, comparing Éowyn to the lady of Lothlórien,” Gimli said quietly, as he scraped dirt off his shoes with his axe, “Éowyn is mortal and you shall outlive her by a long span. You have no cause to fear her. Galadriel, on the other hand, is not a risk to be taken.”

 

“My Lord Aragorn,” she asked curiously, “Who gave you that jewel? A lady?”

“Yes, Undómiel Evenstar, my betrothed,” he laughed self-consciously, “We are to be married after the war, if all goes well.”

“The Lady of Rivendell?” she raised her eyebrows, “What charms can she have seen in us mere mortals?”

“Love is inexplicable,” he laughed, “My Lady Éowyn, you will know of it when you meet the one you love. She loves me and she shall forsake her immortality for me.”

“She gives up the immortality?” she looked faintly disbelieving, “Indeed, My Lord Aragorn, that is a love deeply rooted. How long have you courted?”

“Since we had the Council at Rivendell,” he smiled proudly, “That is when she told me about her love. Before that we did not know each other much, since she was usually in Lothlórien.”

“She gave up her immortality then, after knowing you for only about quarter of a year?” she said quietly, “That, My Lord, seems to be no love. I am no judge of elven hearts, but I would think that someone for whom marriage bonds are so sacrosanct would take a longer time to betroth oneself to a person they do not know much.”

 

He had hated her then. He had hated it that her words made his soul question their hasty betrothal. She had spoken without malice, her words only a testimony to her basic impulsive nature. But she had touched a doubt that lingered within him.

For even when he had clung onto her jewel and fantasized about his queen, he had always wondered. Why had Arwen Evenstar chosen him over all?

 

“Well sung, Ernil,” Mithrandir clapped the prince’s shoulder in a gesture of almost paternal affection.

“I want to see my father,” Laiqua muttered sullenly, scowling at the rocks before them. The smell of charred corpses nearly overwhelmed him. No trees, no animals, just corpses and corpses.

“I was once told that Lord Erestor used to count the corpses on the battlefield after the day’s fight was over,” Mithrandir pulled the prince along with him and began walking.

“Ghastly,” Laiqua muttered, “But would not put it past him.”

“I have heard that your father systematically maims traitors,” Mithrandir continued blithely.

“I know, he does,” the prince shivered, “They lack compassion.”

“Why did you sing that lament now?” Mithrandir asked softly, “It is a Noldorin lay and banned in their own halls.”

“I do not know,” Laiqua shrugged, “I think it felt right, to sing it now. It all comes down to this, doesn’t it? Repairing Celebrimbor’s folly? It is done. All of us are free to sail and seek peace.”

“So it was worth all that you endured and all that you sacrificed?” Mithrandir asked.

“Indeed, all that and more,” Laiqua smiled, “Why ask, Mithrandir?”

“Your father and his peers,” Mithrandir continued gravely, “Nobody has endured and sacrificed as much as they have. For this cause, they have shed blood, their own and that of their enemies. They had to take the paths of cruelty and cold politics where none else would have served. Do not be quick to condemn them, Ernil.”

 

“’Ro, it is over,” Elladan laughed as he embraced his brother, “I have already dispatched the messages to grandfather and to Imladris.”

“I cannot wait to go home,” Elrohir laughed as he sheathed his sword, “We will not be needing this again.” 

 

“My Lady,” he helped her stand, “They have prevailed.”

“Indeed,” she smiled, reminding him of the blooms of the spring in Ithilien.

“You are beautiful,” he whispered, “truly the White Lady of Rohan.”

“My uncle told me so,” she laughed self-consciously at his compliment, “Lord Faramir, you are most adept with words. And I am used to horses and stables, I suffer from an appalling lack of manners.”

“No man would ever think such of you,” he smiled sincerely, “They would be fools to think so.”

“Then there are more fools amongst men that I care to count,” she commented wryly, “My brother is of their number.”

“Why does he dislike you, if I may ask that bold question?” his habitual respect for privacy and reserve had fled in her open, fresh manner.

“That has something to do with your late brother and their relations,” she said crisply.

“Father had let him have a free rein,” he said slowly, as he comprehended the unspoken gist of her words.

“That was obvious from his conduct,” she said sardonically as she watched a rider with shimmering flaxen mane galloping into the city.

“Your brother?” he asked quietly.

“No,” she smiled, “That is the prince, Legolas. He is almost as good as one of us on horses.”

“He was most upset by your sickness,” he volunteered hesitantly, a frown settling on his convalescent features.

“Éowyn!” the said prince galloped into the courtyard, vaulted down from the panting mount and ran to embrace her.

“Well met, Legolas Thranduillion,” she laughed at his intense greeting, “Am I glad to see you in one piece!”

“Come,” she pulled away, “Let me introduce you to my companion of the past few weeks, Lord Faramir, the Steward of Gondor.”

 

“Ernil-nîn,” Gildor’s voice was raw with emotion, “It is over.”

“I know,” Thranduil rasped as he tried to lift his hand to clasp Gildor’s, his lips parted to receive the passionate kiss that his friend instigated, “I felt it.”

“Thranduil!” Galadriel’s voice was clenched by the force of the emotions battering her, “What manner is it to greet a guest thus?”

“You are no unwelcome guest,” he whispered as Gildor helped him into a sitting position, “Your gambit to crush it saved me. The evil was intent on drawing me into the Void with him.”

“The forest?” Galadriel asked stunned.

“Yes, the forest is stained with the malice,” Thalion answered for the king, “it was polluting him, poisoning him. Sauron forged a connection to the land through the fortress he had warped for his purposes. And through that bond, he nearly killed Thranduil. Come, Lord Gildor, we need to see to the realm. People are stricken by the aftermath.”

“It is over,” Thranduil whispered, “It is over.”

Galadriel sat by the bedside and embraced the soul she had come to love as the son she had never had. A moment later, his weary head rested on her slender shoulder, and his arms came around her as he finally gave into his exhaustion. His realm was safe, and he no longer had to keep vigil in the dark.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“I should thank you,” she murmured, “For being the lonely candle that held onto light in the darkest of days, for being the last wall between him and the rest of us. For standing by our house when none else had.”

“I have always had the most absurd principles,” he laughed softly, “If I had sense, I would have sailed after the last war and my son would have been born in Valinor.”

She pulled back and stared at the wealth of regrets in those green eyes that she had never failed to be enchanted by. Where once she had seen imperturbable hope and zest for life, there now only was a quiet peace and infinite exhaustion. 

“If you had sailed, your son would have known his mother,” she said cautiously, trying to determine his thoughts.

He nodded pensively as he spoke, “Yes, indeed. And I would never have lost her to the cold halls of death. Now it is done. I chose my fate and I shall not repent, Galadriel. I will make the best of what I have.”

“You are wearing away,” she said bluntly, “You must sail, Thranduil. Even your endurance has limits.”

“I made a vow,” he smiled wistfully, his eyes misting into memories, “To not sail until you do.”

“And you shall not be an oath-breaker,” she vowed with fervent passion lighting her blue eyes, “We sail as soon as we can.”

Thranduil stiffened and asked her in fear, “But the judgement.”

“I would rather be judged than see you fade away in these lands,” she smiled wanly, “I do not think there is anything to fear from the Valar. I have kept my end of the deal with honour.”

 

Elrond rushed into the study and found Erestor poring over what seemed to be a map of Eriador. He pushed it away and tugged his friend up and embraced him.

“Elrond?” Erestor leant back in the embrace and examined him in concern, “what news? The twins, they are not wounded, are they?”

“It is over,” Elrond said simply, “We are free. Galadriel told me now.”

“Elbereth be praised,” Erestor murmured, his voice breaking with emotion as he embraced Elrond tightly.

“I do not see what Varda has to do with our bloodletting,” Elrond said in a sarcastic murmur as he clasped his friend’s neck and kissed him passionately.

Elrond could feel the relief and turmoil as they drowned in the kiss. Erestor’s fingers were all over him in frenzy as they pried apart tunic buttons and belt buckles. Somewhere in the space of the next few instants, Elrond found himself prone and spread-eagled on the warm rug, arching upwards as he screamed in primal pleasure from Erestor’s ministrations. He thought that his friend was trying to drain his very soul out before his reason collapsed and he sunk into a limp senseless pool of nerves. 

“Sheath,” he commanded harshly as Erestor collapsed atop him, whispering prayers of gratitude to acknowledged and unacknowledged deities.

“I am rather off my mental balance,” Erestor whispered heatedly as he kissed Elrond’s collarbone, ripping a blazing trail of marks downwards onto his pectoral columns.

“I noticed that,” Elrond murmured as he pulled his friend forcefully into an amenable position, “All the more reason why we should rut.”

“Eru!” Erestor laughed in a slightly high-pitched tone at Elrond’s words and then leant over Elrond to snatch a jar secreted underneath the table.

As they joined, Elrond whispered, “We are free to sail, as you have long wished to.”

“What awaits us there is a matter of speculation,” Erestor smiled as he kissed his companion again, with an intensity that made Elrond shudder.

“We shall be in good company. Thranduil is too weak to remain here. And Galadriel is keen to be done with it all. Glorfindel too. We are all sailing,” Elrond laughed breathlessly, “all of us, can you imagine it?”

“I can imagine nothing of the sort when I look down upon you in passion,” Erestor whispered as he stiffened and fell atop his friend, his ragged breathing gradually deepening as Elrond soothed his spine in gentle, firm movements.

“I take it we won?” an amused female voice asked them as Arwen entered and then stopped short as she saw the scene before her.

“Elbereth,” Erestor tried to raise himself onto his elbows and reached for the robes they had discarded on the floor in their fit of passion.

She laughed warmly, amused and yet happy for their indiscretion as she took a large coverlet and spread it over their prone bodies. Erestor smiled, though colour still adorned his high cheekbones. Elrond merely nodded, too spent to even summon a show of embarrassment.

She left them cosseted by the fire, and walked into the gardens. It was over, she mused bitterly. Her father’s folly was finally repaired. And what had she gained? A marriage with a man whom she did not even know. He had won, spurred by the prize that he stood to claim. The darkest part of her could help wishing that they had not won. It was unfair, of course. She would lose her immortality, her freedom, her kin, and she would lose Elrohir. 

“My dear girl,” a dry voice spoke to her, “we are all meant to play our parts. And we did. It is over.”

She turned in shock to find herself staring at a decrepit old man, clad in a plain travelling cloak and broad-brimmed hat. Almost Mithrandir, except for the voice, that sonorous tones.

“Saruman!” she exclaimed as she took an involuntary step backwards.

“Fear not,” he reached out with a bony hand to clasp her wrist and pull her safely back onto the path, “I mean you no harm.”

“How did you get into the valley?” she asked breathlessly, quite aware that the deserted gardens would see none coming to her aid.

“Why not?” he smiled benevolently, “I am, after all, a wizard. And the power of Elrond’s ring has faded.”

“Why?” she asked again, paling as she heard his words.

“I am where I am now because I am meant to be there,” he enunciated clearly, as if speaking to a dullard, “And you are here because of the same reason.”

“You tortured my father!” she said bitterly, tears starting in her eyes, “Have you not brought enough destruction upon my house?”

“No, my child,” he said tiredly, “It was in the music of Eru that I be what I had been. As it was in the music of Eru that your house would prevail. When things are at their darkest, and when you doubt yourself, never fail to remember that everything is as it is because of the will of Eru. Now I must go.”

“I cannot let you go!” she exclaimed in horror, “You destroyed my father!”

“Let go, Undómiel,” he laughed sadly, “My fate shall not let me choose my end in this fair valley. Take the crown, my dear lady, and find the solace it offers you. He is a noble soul though he can never be Lord Elrohir.”

“Shall I find solace in the crown?” she began in bitter scorn.

“Of course, you might be surprised at where your heart might find solace when you will it so. Mine, for example, has found its in pipeweed,” he chuckled before slowly making his way into the woods, leaving her alone.

She was almost ready to believe that she had a delusion when her hand struck on something that had caught in her hair. She reached up to find a circlet of golden leaves, of mallorn leaves, she noted absently as she stared at it.

Perhaps if she forgave him, she hoped fervently, her kin might be subjected to a lenient judgement when they sailed. Perhaps her forgiveness could win Elrohir’s escape from the wrath of the Valar.

“Be redeemed, wherever you are,” she whispered, forgiveness of her father’s tormentor finally possible now.

* * *

“Estel,” Mithrandir ambled over to the soon-to-be king, “What has you in such deep thoughts?”

“Women,” Estel laughed quietly, “They are what makes us and breaks us, are they not, Mithrandir?”

“Probably yes,” Mithrandir smiled, “There are those who say that Míriel Serindë’s sacrifice was the root cause of the troubles of the house of Finwë. But you cannot be thinking of her, right now.”

“I was thinking of Lady Undómiel, her promise made me win, I would never else have found the will to do so,” Estel admitted.

“She comes soon,” Mithrandir looked over the ramparts, “The twins have ridden on to meet their party. I hear that Celeborn and Galadriel, as well as Gildor, have accompanied Elrond.”

“Lord Thranduil?” Estel asked quietly as he looked over to where Laiqua stood with Éowyn and Gimli, merrily jesting over something.

“He will not be coming,” Mithrandir shrugged, “Thalion might come instead.”

 

“My Lords!” Lindir said in pure relief as he descended from his mount and ran to embrace the young charges he had raised from their infancy.

“Lindir!” Elladan laughed as he embraced the elder elf, “What made you leave the lands of Imladris?”

Lindir smiled self-consciously and stepped back, but was pulled into a bear-hug by Elrohir, who murmured quietly, “Eru, we have missed you.”

“It was terrible,” Lindir admitted, “Not knowing what would happen. Standing there in the courtyard and waiting for the news.”

“We know,” Elrohir sighed, “At least, it is over now. All of it.”

The rest of the party was slowly advancing towards them. Elrohir saw Elrond and Gildor on either side of Undómiel, who wore a circlet of mallorn leaves, her proud features set in determination.

“Hail, Undómiel,” Elrohir said evenly and curtseyed to her before moving to his father’s side and burying his face in Elrond’s lap.

“Ion-nîn,” Elrond vaulted down from his horse and embraced his son, “I am overjoyed to see you both safe and hale.”

“So am I, Ada,” he replied frankly, “Where’s Ada Erestor?”

“He is with Galadriel,” Elrond crinkled his nose as he mentioned his former mother-by-law’s name, “At the rear end of the party. Run on and find them, for Galadriel was eager on seeing you both.”

Elrohir nodded and relinquished Elrond to Elladan’s embrace. He galloped to the rear end of the large party. He felt a smile tugging at the lips as he saw the cosy scene that greeted him.

Celeborn was walking, his hands gently guiding a brown mare mounted by Thranduil, who was turning behind to retort with choice words to Erestor’s sarcasm. Galadriel was laughing as she rode by her nephew’s side, the lines of care from her features temporarily lifted. Behind them, Glorfindel was flirting with one of Thranduil’s healers. Elrohir returned to Lindir’s side, he would speak with his father and grandparents later. 

“I am glad that you came,” he said sincerely to his former mentor as he reached Lindir, “Most unexpected and much welcomed.”

“I wanted to come, but had no courage. Then Lord Erestor dragged me here. Now I am glad that I came, I had been most worried about you,” Lindir said quietly.

“Indeed,” Elrohir stopped as he saw the multitude of emotions battering Lindir’s hazel eyes.

“It is no longer a secret, is it?” Lindir laughed hollowly before moving away.

Elrohir grasped his wrist and said slowly, “It is a requited secret, if you wish so, Lindir.”

 

“Ada,” a wild shout from atop the city momentarily caused the party to pause.

It was followed by a flaxen-gold whirlwind that galloped down the tiers of the city and across the plains. Laiqua Thranduillion jumped off his horse and pushed past Celeborn. Thranduil had already dismounted with Erestor’s aid and smiled as his son leapt into his arms, almost toppling him. 

“Leafling,” Thranduil murmured softly as Laiqua whispered gratitude and apologies, his hands clenching his father’s much weakened torso in fierce intensity.

“You look terrible,” Laiqua finally exclaimed as he released his father from the embrace.

“I feel terrible,” Thranduil smiled even as a protective Gildor rode over and watched them with hawk eyes.

“I should never have left, you needed me at the end,” Laiqua murmured stricken as he took in his father’s unnatural pallor and exhausted features.

“I was not there for the end myself, Galadriel has the credit,” Thranduil said lightly, though his eyes still remained sad by his son’s desertion.

 

“Who had it made for you?” Galadriel’s curious voice broke into her thoughts.

“I…,” she faltered, “a well-wisher.”

“Most strange,” Galadriel moved closer and inspected the intricate circlet, though she did not touch it at all, “It seems to be a work of your father’s forge.”

“What mean you?” Arwen asked hesitantly, her curiosity warring with her reluctance to explain how she had come by it.

“Yes,” Galadriel nodded, “It is a work of Celebrimbor, though it is by no means his finest. A certain coarseness of the material chosen, as if he had not had the necessary implements to smoothen it. And the usual filaments of the leaves, that he took pains with, that is missing. Almost as if he was under a time constraint,” she smiled wearily, “Forgive me, Undómiel, I find myself to be as interested in the works of the forge as many of my family were.”

 

“Arwen,” Elrohir called out, “A moment.”

She paled, but nodded coolly. He smiled politely and offered her his arm, motioning towards the gardens. She complied, her heartbeat fluttering.

“I wanted to tell you that you were right, your actions made Estel hope and trust in himself. He proved to be a true leader. And then he led us to victory. All spurred by the love of Evenstar,” he said quietly, “I hold no resentment, what you did was necessary for the greater cause.”

“Lindir holds you in deep regard,” she said tonelessly. 

“He does, and I reciprocate his regard,” he replied calmly, “I know that he will place people above politics and causes. I will not be hurt again.”

“We have nothing more to say to each other, have we?” she desperately wanted to return, to rest her forehead against the cool stones of the mansion.

“I wish you well, as I always have,” he smiled and turned to press a kiss to her cheeks before withdrawing, “As much as I may love anyone else, I will never forget that you laid claim to the greater part of my heart a long while before.”

“You will sail?” she asked in a trembling voice.

“Ada Elrond, Ada Erestor and the rest of them shall sail immediately. Elladan and I will remain awhile, we have promised to wait for Laiqua. He will not be sailing now. Gimli and he are going to journey through the lands of Middle-Earth.”

“Imladris?” she asked quietly.

“Yes,” he nodded, “Perhaps Mithlond.”

 

“My Lord,” Éowyn said in reverence as she crossed the golden enigma that was Laiqua’s father.

“The White Lady of Rohan’, a musical voice came up behind her, she turned to see Lord Erestor of Imladris.

“Ah!” Thranduil smiled and bowed to press a kiss to her hand, “Charmed to meet you, finally,” his smile widened, “After all that I have heard of you from my son.”

She blushed at the warmth of his eyes and said quietly, “Much I have heard of you from many, My Lord Oropherion.”

“Thranduil,” he smiled as he straightened, though he still loosely held her hand, “Erestor, do you not think that the fair lady deserves to call me by no title?”

“Indeed,” Erestor laughed, his warm voice reassuring her as little else ever had, “Come, Thranduil, we should let her leave, lest her kin accuses you of charming her.”

Thranduil laughed, his green eyes lighting up in a way Laiqua’s never had as he said peaceably, “I shall put down to your jealousy of my possession of Éowyn’s hand, Erestor. But we shall not impose on her any further, of course.”

“Your son,” she said impulsively, “is a wonderful soul.”

“Of course,” Thranduil exchanged a knowing glance with Erestor, “He is my son, after all.”

She nodded and was about to leave when he called after her, “A moment more of your time, if we may.”

“Yes, My Lords,” she paused.

“We will be leaving soon,” Thranduil said soberly, the mirth vanishing from his eyes, “Would you watch over our sons and make them sail as soon as they may? I fear for them.”

“I would, even if you had not asked,” she said proudly, “I have fought beside them and am bound to them by our experiences together.”

 

“And here was where our camp stood,” Elrond pointed out to Mithrandir as they walked near the swamp.

It had been a tentative excursion suggested by Glorfindel, who had wanted to see all the lands he had travelled through one last time before they sailed. Thranduil and Erestor had agreed immediately, their vibrant spirits chafing at the stone walls of Gondor. Celeborn had withdrawn saying that he wished to spend time with his grandsons. Galadriel was with Thalion, their old comradeship keeping them engrossed in conversation. 

Elrond had agreed, mainly because he did not trust that Thranduil and Erestor would come back without getting into a scrape. He had concealed his healing kit in his robes and now accompanied Mithrandir, who was asking him about the Last Alliance. Before him, Gildor and Glorfindel were quietly reminiscing. Thranduil and Erestor had wandered off together to the very edge of the swamp and were now passionately arguing. Elrond pursed his lips and scowled as he debated going after them.

“I believe that they must have been a handful, even then,” Mithrandir chuckled as he saw the objects of Elrond’s glare.

“Very much so, but they were a shared handful,” Elrond smiled, “Gil, Oropher, Celeborn, Gildor, Glor, Círdan and I. We always managed to fail at our self-appointed duty. Those two, they are adept at putting themselves in the path of danger.”

“Shall we go over and see what they are so vociferously arguing about?” Mithrandir asked amusedly as he tugged Elrond towards the swamp.

“Elrond!” Erestor’s voice was concerned, “The land is not firm, don’t venture over here.”

“How does that justify your standing there?” Elrond called back irritably, wondering how they could be so protective of each other and yet never care for their own safety.

Thranduil laughed as he clung to Erestor’s arm to keep his balance on the peaty ground before saying companionably, “There is nothing here, Elrond, just well-preserved corpses floating in the mire.”

“And the two of you find that interesting?” Glorfindel remarked as he reached to help Mithrandir to drier round, “Come off the mire, and stick to the firm ground. If you die in quicksand, it would be an anticlimax of sorts after all the fight you have put in.”

“He was telling me that he could still recognize many of the bodies floating in the mire,” Erestor accepted Elrond’s hand and leapt lightly onto the dry ground. 

Thranduil rolled his eyes as Gildor enquired if he objected to being carried, but the king made no objection as Gildor grabbed his waist in an effort to steady him. That alone spoke volumes about his exhaustion. Though he seemed to be mending under Thalion’s and Galadriel’s care, he had trouble with long strenuous activities. However, Elrond mused, being Thranduil, the king had hidden away all traces of pain and discomfort as he entertained them like days of old.

Elrond barely paid attention to Mithrandir’s words as he gazed upon Thranduil and Erestor. The sun cast flattering rays on their noble profiles. Elrond wondered at the two people he loved the most. There was Thranduil’s golden sensuality. And there was Erestor’s charismatic elegance. So different and yet so alike. The ruthless minds, the calm, stoic acceptance of fates where lesser souls would have given in, their willingness to put others above self…

“Elrond, what enticing thoughts keep you so distant from us?” Mithrandir demanded grumpily, “I have been talking to you, you know!”

Elrond shook himself out of his thoughts. A faint glimmer of gold caught his sight, on Erestor’s fingers. The wedding band of Gil-Galad. He sighed, Mordor was where they had bonded, where they had lost much. He had given up his moral values to let Isildur escape, so that he might return to his friend. 

“A long journey, has it not been?” Thranduil was asking Erestor.

“Not a path I would trade for any other,” Erestor said calmly, his voice free of regrets and doubts.

“Nor I,” Thranduil grasped Erestor’s hand tightly and looked up at the sun, “The dawn is not as painful as it once was to me.”

 

Elrond was relieved when they finally reached the woods of Thranduil. The old fortress which held many memories for them all were deserted. Those who had chosen to remain would follow Laiqua into Ithilien. Greenwood the Great would no longer shelter elves. Oropher’s realm had come to an end.

Thranduil stood back as Thalion sealed shut the doors of Oropher’s stone fortress. The pulse of the forest was imploring him to stay. He felt dizzy and sick as the force of Greenwood ripped him apart from within. But he could not give in, the sea call in him was far stronger. He would obey it or go insane.

“We will prevail,” Erestor said calmly, his musical voice reassuring his friend.

 

“I do not wish to leave Lothlórien,” Celeborn sulked, “Most unhappy at the thought.”

“We have already left it,” Galadriel smiled as they rode through the High Pass.

“I feel like riding back,” Celeborn said pertly.

“Lothlórien or I?” Galadriel raised an amused eyebrow.

“If I had sense, I would say Lothlórien,” Celeborn muttered as he rode on to Thranduil’s side.

“You have never been accused of showing sense,” she called after him, though the wind drowned her voice.

She smiled to herself as she pulled her horse to a stop to let Gildor catch up with her. 

“It feels almost surreal,” he commented as he turned to watch the paths recede. They could still see the faint line of green marking the realms of Greenwood and Lothlórien.

“That we will not return to these lands,” he shrugged pensively, “I still refuse to believe it like a fool.”

“We never believed that we would be exiled forever from Valinor. My brother Angrod, he was making lists of the names of all those who were in debt to him when he was travelling on the Ice,” Galadriel said quietly, “He believed that he would return to Valinor. Many of them thought so, at the time.”

“You feel no regret at leaving the place?” he asked dubiously.

“I have never felt sad at leaving any place except Himring,” she smiled thoughtfully, “That was probably because I knew I would not see many of them again.”

 

They reached Imladris, their slow cavalcade moving into the deserted courtyard of the mansion that Erestor had built in the heydays of Lindon. Elrond felt memories assail him as they crossed the Bruinen, of long nights spent by the water, of riding together, of sparring together, of building this refuge together.

He looked across at Erestor and saw a wistful smile playing on his friend’s lips as he talked with Glorfindel.

He closed his eyes, he could remember Erestor standing on the steps of the mansion, waiting to receive Gil-Galad, Glorfindel and Elrond as they travelled to the new city for the first time. He remembered the fragrance of the rose bushes when Lindir and Celebrían had tended them. He recollected clearly the soft praises sung to the Valar by the devout elves who had lived here. He could remember standing in the courtyard waiting for news of arrival of his friends. He remembered vividly little feet pattering, little hands touching and exploring as the twins grew under his care.

That day when Celebrían and Elrohir had ridden out accompanied by a paltry escort. Of Erestor and Glorfindel rushing back with Elrohir’s limp form cradled against his father.

Of waiting patiently on the rocks as Erestor swum at midnight in the cold waters of the river, thinking aloud upon matters as was his wont.

“Elrond,” Glorfindel’s concerned voice broke into his memories.

“I was just thinking,” he smiled in apology and turned to engage a brooding Celeborn in conversation.

“It is a part of what we are,” Galadriel said quietly, “But in itself, it does not make us what we are in essence. Places, people, situations, all contribute to the greater force that is our soul. The amount they contribute,” she smiled, “depends solely on our will.”

“Yes,” Thranduil said thoughtfully, “I did let Greenwood exert its influence on me, so irreparably that I am bound to those woods. We bring upon the doom of attachments on ourselves.”

“That is cold-blooded,” Elrond said acidly, “To have memories of a place that you protected with all your life and more, that is not a lack of willpower. That is what distinguishes us from lesser creatures.”

“We have a long way to go and no doubt our debates can help us pass the time,” Glorfindel said impatiently, his eyes on the waterfalls of the valley.

“I bid thee goodbye, fair Imladris,” Elrond whispered as he turned his back on the only place he had ever called home.

He had never felt this sense of loss, not even when he had left Lindon, or when he had left Sirion or Balar. But this feeling of desolation was unutterably close to the grief he had borne when he had been forced to leave Maglor.

“Iron when reforged merely turns stronger,” Glorfindel said quietly as he fell into pace beside Elrond.

* * *


	7. The End Of An Age

“Erestor,” Círdan smiled in welcome as he embraced his foster-son.

Elrond stood back to watch as Círdan fussed over Erestor, a rare spectacle since the mariner seldom showed his emotions so openly. But for now, they were there on the ancient features for all to see, relief, sorrow, loss and hope, all clashing against each other as the waves of the sea.

Elrond inhaled the scent of the sea, feeling the cool sea breeze play on his face. His soul soared in joy as he looked upon the foam lashing against the docks where a tall, grey ship was moored, ready for sailing.

“Elrond,” Thranduil’s arms came around his waist in an old gesture of friendship, the king’s chin rested on Elrond’s shoulder as he breathed, “I am overwhelmed. It seems so sudden. Yesterday I seemed to be fighting a losing battle under the shadow of the East. And today I am at Mithlond, waiting to embark on a ship, all those I love by my side.”

“Laiqua will miss you,” Elrond sighed, “Very badly.”

“Let him see these lands he was born unto,” Thranduil smiled, “It is only fitting. Fair Éowyn has promised to ensure that he sails, along with Elladan and Elrohir.”

“A wonderful woman,” Elrond said quietly as he leant back against his friend, inhaling the fresh scent of pinewood that had always characterized Thranduil, “perhaps you are right, it is fitting. Our time is over. Now it is the time of the next generation. We have done what we could, we have given all that we could. Now we are free.”

“Freedom,” Thranduil mused, “That is a strange concept, is it not, Elrond? We thought we were free when we were younger, but we were not. It took us the loss of guardians and kin to realize that we had merely being sheltered, not raised free. Now, perhaps, we are finally free of our legacies.”

“Lord Ingwë will be waiting for you,” Elrond said smiling, “After many centuries of yearning, he shall finally see you.”

“I am looking forward to meeting him,” Thranduil said agreeably, “Though I will probably not stir a muscle after we dock there. I have earned some reprieve.”

“Come in, My Lords,” Círdan called, “We have yet time to spare before the grace of Ulmo shall let us set sail.”

 

Gildor wondered how the rest of them could accept this tumultuous rate at which they had to leave home and hearth and travel to Mithlond. They would never return. And they were starting on a journey that had no assurances at the end. How then could they be so sanguinely hopeful?

“Gildor?” Erestor’s voice was mildly concerned as he hooked an arm through his friend’s and joined him in looking over Círdan’s large gallery.

“How can you be so self-assured when we know nothing of what awaits us?” Gildor asked troubled, “Galadriel, I can understand, she has never let anything affect her. Elrond, yes, he has never held hopes of anything good befalling us. He is stoic to the end. But Thranduil, how can he be so hopeful? And Glorfindel, he was denied Aman once. And you, how can you be not in the remotest frightened?”

“Hope,” Erestor said bewildered at the question, “hope, Gildor, what else? What do we have to fear, given that we have honorably discharged our end of the deal?”

“But how can you be sure that the Valar will discharge their end of the deal?” Gildor asked scornfully, “We have been victims of their plotting before, countless times.”

“Yes,” Erestor said reflectively, his dark eyes blackening, “But that does not mean they will do so again. We need to hope that is so, Gildor, for it is only on that hope’s wings we sail to the unknown.”

“Again you amaze me,” Gildor said sardonically, “After all that you have gone through, dare you trust in hope, Erestor?”

“Dare I?” Erestor replied quietly, “Gildor, our zest for life is measured by our daring to hope.”

“We know nothing of what awaits us,” Gildor said persistently.

“And yet, we shall be together, till whatever end. What more can I ask for?” Erestor shrugged as he smiled at Gildor, his eyes shining in earnest joy.

 

“I cannot wait to see ‘Bría,” Celeborn commented as he fingered the long harp that stood in the centre of the hall.

“Macalaurë’s,” Galadriel walked over to the instrument and reverentially touched it, “one of the ones he had brought over from Aman. I thought it passed into Findekano’s care.”

“It must have probably ended up with Círdan,” Celeborn said knowledgeably, “He has always been the succour of your house.”

“Yes,” Galadriel smiled as she paused to examine the large mirror that covered one entire wall of the room.

Celeborn crept behind her and entwined his hands about her waist, their heads side-by-side, his front stretched against her back. She clasped his fingers with her own over her stomach as they stood before the mirror, staring at their reflections.

He gazed into her serene blue eyes as he said quietly, “I live for moments like these, when I am with you, holding you close and listening to our hearts thudding together.”

She met his gaze in the mirror and reached back with one hand to trail her fingers through his silvery hair, whispering,“My silver tree.”

“Altáriel,” her name, as ever, when pronounced in that slow, melodious voice made her shiver and lean back against him.

His head loomed over hers before descending to claim her lips. She shuddered and completely collapsed against his chest, not falling merely because of the grip of his arms around her waist. Through a corner of her eyes, she could see their intertwining forms in the mirror. It seemed as if no age had passed since they had first met each other and become consumed by desire for each other.

“We shall prevail, Altáriel,” he promised as his fingers trailed through her hair, pulling her closer.

 

 

“Elrond,” Erestor walked to his friend, who was staring at the waves, “It is almost time to leave. What keeps you?”

“Nothing,” Elrond smiled at his friend, “Merely wished that you would come to fetch me, is that too romantically delusional?”

“When have we ever behaved without romantic delusions?” Erestor grinned as he sat down beside Elrond on the sand, tucking his robes neatly under his legs.

“Galadriel and Celeborn are worse, thrice over,” Elrond muttered, “They lost control in the hall merely because they happened to see their reflections on the mirrored walls.”

“I do not think that Círdan put the mirror to provoke such behavior,” Erestor said dryly, “Then again, it is difficult to know what triggers what in that complex relationship between Galadriel and Celeborn.”

“I am looking forward to seeing ‘Bría,” Elrond said thoughtfully as he stared at the waves, lapping at their feet.

“So am I,” Erestor admitted, “I often think of her, it is stupid of me, but I always feel she might be lonely there. Maybe it is because she sailed alone.”

“Finarfin’s court is not an isolated place,” Elrond said amusedly.

“I cannot wait to see the reunion of Galadriel and her father,” Erestor said mischievously, “She must no longer be the naïve woman who left her father to follow her kin.”

“Life, to her, has probably come full-circle,” Elrond said quietly.

 

“Gildor!” Thranduil broke into Gildor’s conversation with Mithrandir, “I admit that I have been bed-ridden, but still…you could have abandoned me for someone more charming than this dumpling of a wizard.”

“Indeed,” Mithrandir harrumphed, “So speaks Thranduil, of late delirious.”

“Pardon me,” Thranduil smiled unrepentantly, “Let me take away my bonded-mate now, Mithrandir. I have better things to do with my last eve on Middle-Earth than to while away time with your conversation. Snatch a bottle of something suitable and follow me, Gildor, the roof offers the most enticing views.”

“Wha-?” Gildor began, but Thranduil pulled him to his feet and dragged him away, unmindful of Mithrandir’s chortling.

A few moments later, Círdan and Glorfindel entered asking, “What is that grunting from the roof, Mithrandir?”

“Believe me, Thranduil has recovered,” Mithrandir said wryly.

 

“Galadriel,” Círdan smiled as she entered the chamber, “So it is done. The last grandchild of Finwë has succeeded in redeeming her kin, saving them from the Void.”

“I do not know what awaits us,” she smiled, “Though it is one journey that has less horrors than might have happened had we not won.”

“What would you have done if you had not won? Stayed?” he asked quietly, watching her blue eyes in awe.

“No, I would have sailed. Thranduil was wearing out, we could not have killed him. All kinslaying was nothing compared to watching him die before my eyes. I would have readily sailed and accepted my doom.”

He nodded as he walked to the window and watched the loading of cargo into the ships. She contented herself by walking to the mantelpiece and rearranging the cluttered correspondence there. Most were from traders, from warriors, from other realms. She gathered them and threw them onto the floor, they were no longer necessary. As she idly fiddled with the rest, she saw a lock of burnished red hair that clung to the bunch of keys that lay on the mantel. 

“Maedhros,” she whispered stricken as she reverentially took the hair and smoothened it straight, it disobeyed her willfully, curling back. So it had always been even in their youth, his hair had never lent itself to neatness. 

Círdan turned and said harshly, “Leave it be, Galadriel.”

“But,” Galadriel stopped, she had been about to ask him how a lock of her long dead cousin’s hair had ended up in his possession.

His stricken gaze betrayed him. The slightly hunched shoulders, the tightly clenched fingers, the drawn, blank expression. She had been through the vagaries of love too much, she understood each emotion and the reaction it spurred. 

“I did not know,” she said brokenly, watching his loneliness fall like a cloak about him.

“I did not aid you because of my personal regard for your fallen cousin,” he said sharply, “leave it be, Galadriel.”

“You aided me since you believed in my cause,” she said resolutely as she came around the large desk that separated them, he withdrew further to the isolation of the window.

She bowed to him and said quietly, “My Lord Círdan, I am sorry. If I had known, I would never have intruded.”

He did not reply, she left the chamber quietly, her mind swirling with turmoil as she searched for more clues that could have given him away in the past.

 

“Shall we?” Erestor prodded Elrond’s ribs companionably as he got to his feet.

“Yes,” Elrond took the helping hand extended to him and rose to his feet, “After the sunset.”

“Is it my imagination, or do I see Thranduil naked on the roof?” Erestor muttered as he glanced up at the mansion.

“It cannot be your imagination, it is most likely a realization of Thranduil’s imagination,” Elrond laughed as he leant against his friend, while stooping to grab a handful of fine sand that sifted through his fingers.

“It is like time, is it not?” he asked thoughtfully as the sand fell from his hands, “Too fast for us to ever realize its passage.”

Erestor did not reply though a pair of warm hands rested on his shoulders in a gesture of simple affection. Elrond smiled as he placed his own hands atop Erestor’s and gazed at the horizon where the sun was making its gradual descent down the red skies. 

“A blood sunset,” Erestor remarked as the red rays washed over their conjoined hands.

“A red sunset,” Elrond corrected him peacefully as they watched the skies crimson with the dark hues of the setting sun.

Elrond turned about and watched his friend. The sharp aquiline features, softened by the smile that played on the aristocratic visage; the dark hair that tickled Elrond’s frame; the warmth that was held in those black eyes as they shone in the setting sun’s rays. Miracles, he mused silently, happened in life.

“You are not watching your much treasured sunset,” Erestor complained half-amusedly as his gaze shifted from the setting sun to his friend.

“I am,” Elrond clarified defiantly, “To me, the sunset is never as beautiful as it appears to be when reflected in your eyes. I watch two miracles at the same time. I am fortunate, am I not?”

Erestor merely smiled as he returned his gaze to the red sun that was sinking down the sea, throwing his pale features into sharp contrast.

 

Galadriel walked to the ship, where Celeborn waited for her. She turned to find Elrond and Erestor still lingering on the sands, watching the faint arc of red on the horizon. A smile graced her features as she watched them walk slowly towards the ship.

 

 __  
“What is hope, Macalaurë, what is hope to us?”she had asked him distraught as they parted. He would sail and she would return to wage her lonely battle

“Hope sees the invisible,feels the intangible and achieves the impossible,” he had smiled wistfully, “Hope is the very air we breathe, Artanis, it gives us the courage to take the next step forward.”  
__

_“Altáriel,” Celeborn smiled as he walked to her side, “What is it?”_

_“I was thinking of hope,” she admitted as she accepted his arm._

_“To me, hope is you,” he said frankly as he helped her up the ladder to the boat that would take them to the ship._

_She smiled at his flattery (she would classify such statements only under the head of flattery), and turned to watch Elrond and Erestor walking arm-in-arm towards the docks. There was something simple, yet intangible about their comradeship that made her hope._

And she would hope.

* * *

__


End file.
